


Doyle & Bodie - Second Guess

by Jaicen5



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Abduction, Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:21:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 52,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaicen5/pseuds/Jaicen5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie receives a blow on his head and goes missing, his memory faulty and Doyle finds it harder to bring his partner back than he thought.  Not least because Bodie thinks he's the enemy</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doyle & Bodie - Second Guess

**Author's Note:**

> I've only just noticed that the original uploading of this fic had a couple of chapters missing, which I suspect, made it a bit hard to follow in places. It can be a bit of a problem to check properly in a fic this size, so sorry about that. Instead of trying to fix it, I'm not that bright... I've decided its easier just to upload it again.

**Doyle & Bodie - Second Guess**

_I do not own these characters nor claim any right to do so.  
This fanfic is purely for entertainment purposes only_

 

  
 **Chapter 1.**

 

The street was dirty, grey and matched both the London sky and the sour mood of Frank Connolly as he traipsed along, avoiding the rubbish and grime with distaste. He’d been back in England less than three months and already it felt like years. Three months of doing nothing more taxing than turning the pages of a newspaper and yet his hands still had a slight shake. He kept them in his pockets and clenched them in frustration painfully recalling that last stunt in Africa, the one that had gone so drastically wrong. He’d lost the edge during that one, and he’d lost it bad. He was finished for mercenary work, that much was plain, and with it his primary source of income for the last ten years, and so he’d come home. If you could call this home, he thought, gazing around at the depressingly impoverished area. But his passport still proclaimed him a British subject, despite Connolly not having a patriotic bone in his body, and anyway he had nowhere else to go. 

But that phone call last night. That had changed everything. The Spaniard was also back and he was planning something big. And he wanted Frank Connolly as part of his team. Connolly clenched his hands and willed them to stop shaking. He couldn’t afford to pass this up, nerves or no nerves.

The pub up ahead was as seedy and as grimy as the street in which it sat. Juan Carlos was a creature of habit. He always came back to this area, to where he felt comfortable. The King’s Head was well known for recruiting muscle, men that wouldn’t ask questions and didn’t demand too much compensation for what they did and the Spaniard was that sort of man.

Connolly hesitated at the door, feeling his hands tremble, betraying his composure, and he resolutely pushed them down into his pockets as he entered the taproom. Carlos was sitting by the window smoking. Habit again. Carlos always sat by the window and he always watched the street, always careful. Connolly moved across the room, dodging tables and patrons alike, the air thick with the damp sour scent of spilled drinks and cigarette smoke. The Spaniard watched him approach, black eyes hard, narrowed, suspicious. “How are you, mi amigo?”

“Well enough.” Connolly held himself back. It didn’t pay to be too friendly with Carlos. The Spaniard had a wicked temper and was ruthless when he was crossed. Carlos stood up and came directly to the point in his usual fashion. “I need a bomb maker.”

Connolly was surprised. “What? Here in London?” 

Carlos merely nodded. “You are interested?”

Connolly stared at him for a minute, weighing it up. “How many jobs?”

“Just the one. But it is a big one.”

 

**************

 

George Cowley held the report in his hand and limped in the direction of the rest room, looking for an agent to pass it off to, a simple pick up, no risk, one of the younger ones would do, a nice little practice job. He could hear muted conversation as he approached the door, recognised Doyle’s low dirty laugh, Bodie’s smooth voice and a slightly unsure feminine response and frowned. What were that pair doing skiving in the rest room instead of out on the streets working? He stepped through the doorway and all noise ceased, silence descending like a blanket, alerting him to the fact that whatever was happening, it was highly likely to be something he wouldn’t approve of. His sharp eyes quickly scanned the room and its occupants. Jax was relaxing in a chair at the table with a coffee cup, an amused expression on his face, Anson next to him, filling the air with his cigar smoke. 

Ray Doyle, in shirtsleeves and shoulder holster, was propping up the window frame, arms folded, lean hips angled, feet crossed negligently at the ankles, his impish face alive with delighted mischief. Cowley didn’t have to look far to find the other half of that diabolical act, just behind the door in fact. Bodie stood quite close to the girl, leaning into her, his face boyish, charming and devilish all at the same time. The girl - Cowley vaguely recognised her as one of the typists - was very young, and way out of her depth if she thought she could handle master Bodie. The chief of CI5’s face tightened, displeased with his agent’s antics. They knew the rules, even if they blatantly ignored them. No fraternisation and for good reason. Mixing his oversexed young operatives, with the highly impressionable members of the typing pool, guaranteed a succession of misspelt words on all his correspondence. And besides, he added as an afterthought, it wasn’t honourable either.

Bodie caught sight of his boss’ disapproving stare and stepped away from the girl, his natural talent for self-preservation kicking in. Doyle ducked his head and rubbed the side of his nose, trying, and failing utterly, to hide his amused glee as his partner was caught out red handed.

Cowley didn’t want to know what those two tearaways might have been saying to her, but he could guess, judging by the high colour in her cheeks and the flustered look on her face as she quickly moved around him and disappeared out of the door.

“Playing again, Bodie?”

His scathing tone didn’t faze Bodie who merely replied, ‘Ah, more like educating, sir.” With an artfully angelic expression, he clarified. “About the size of our weapons.”

Doyle gave a faint snort from the window and Cowley eyed him sternly, knowing quite well that Doyle wasn’t an innocent party in this little game either. Competing with each other more like. Again! As if the young women in the typing pool needed any further encouragement – they were already in awe of the field agents and the dangerous risks involved in their everyday lives and it took very little for men like Doyle or Bodie to take advantage of that awe in their endless game of one-upmanship.

“Well she did ask,” Bodie murmured to no one in particular.

Cowley slapped the report down on the tea table and said icily, “Obviously you have too much time on your hands. Kenny Bardon. We’ve just had a tip off. He’s in a pub in East London, bring him in.”

Doyle pushed himself away from the window, and picked up his leather jacket. Bodie collected the papers off the desk. “On our way sir.”

Cowley waited until they disappeared out the doorway, all lithe and easy movement.

Doyle’s voice floated back from the hallway. “Better check your weapon then, sunshine, make sure you’re not shooting blanks.”

And Bodie, fainter, “Well I was, till Cowley interrupted….”

Jax covered his mouth and Anson choked on a puff of his cigar. Cowley glowered at them both. “Why aren’t you both out doing your jobs?”

“Just going sir.” Jax pushed back his chair and departed hurriedly, Anson at his shoulder.

 

************

“I haven’t met this one?”

Bodie was driving, handling the Capri with his usual smooth skill. Doyle lounged in the passenger seat, checking their route on the London A to Z.

“No and you’re not going to either. The lovely Maria of the 38 double D cup has a thing for curls. Makes her come over all warm and tingly, she says. You wouldn’t know what hit you if she saw that mop you call hair.”

Doyle flipped the page in the directory, holding it down with one hand, raising the other to his temple, as the slipstream from the open window whipped said curls into his eyes. “If it was a 38 double D cup, I think I should have a very good idea of what hit me. Turn right at the next roundabout.”

Bodie flashed a quick smile at his partner. “Anyway, she’s gone back to Italy. So I’m on the lookout for something fresh.”

“Gone through all the numbers in your little black book have you?”

“Big black book,” Bodie corrected primly.

“Cowley will go ballistic.”

“Cowley wouldn’t have to know.”

Doyle looked steadily across at him and then back to the directory. “Not your type anyway.”

“All woman are my type,” Bodie retorted indignantly.

“Nah, not enough up top.”

“You don’t need that much up top.” Bodie took one hand off the wheel and reached into the back seat, feeling around until his questing fingers came across what he was looking for. The Capri swerved slightly as he hauled a newspaper forward into the front seat.

“Watch it!” Doyle made a grab for the wheel, but Bodie brought the car skilfully back under control and thrust the paper to his dubious partner. 

“See?” he said with the air of having been right all along. “Look at her then, hardly anything up top and she still made it to page three.”

Doyle stared at the page, raising his brows and Bodie, smugly pleased said, “Told you so.”

But Doyle wasn’t looking at the Page Three girl; his eyes had instead picked out the heading just below it. “Exclusive showing at the Tivoli Gallery.”

“You what?”

“A special showing, look here. The Tivoli Gallery, exhibiting some forty pieces, mostly on loan. France, Italy, Spain…”

Bodie glanced across in disbelief. “Blimey Doyle, only you would notice an art exhibition instead of a half naked woman.”

“Don’t have to notice them mate.” Doyle eyes flicked quickly down the article, then gave his partner a blinding white smile. “They notice me.”

Bodie shook his head in despair and turned the wheel gently as Doyle threw the paper back into the rear seat and took up the street directory again.

“Turn left at the lights,” Doyle instructed, shoving at his hair again and squinting ahead before checking the map. The streets outside were slowly growing shabbier and dingier and Doyle straightened slightly, unfamiliar with the territory they were passing through  
.  
“I know this area,” Bodie remarked in a surprised voice, as he drove past dilapidated warehouses to the address in the file.

Doyle looked across in derision. “You? You know this area? Hardly Savile Row is it?”

Bodie ignored his partner and peered out of the windscreen, looking up at the buildings. “There was this bloke, long time ago now. Knew him in Africa. He’d always come back here, to this area. Like a homing pigeon he was. Dunno why. Big Spaniard, you’d think he’d go back to Spain, but for some reason he always came here.”

“Maybe he grew up here.” Doyle looked out himself, at the disreputable buildings and the few people on the dirty streets, hunched into their overcoats.

“Nah, Spanish as they come and he hated the English. Could never figure it.” Bodie shrugged. “He’s probably dead by now. It’s the one occupation guaranteed not to need a retirement plan.”

Doyle glanced across at his partner. Bodie had never properly opened up about his mercenary past, well not the facts anyway. He could still spin a good yarn from that time though and it was anyone’s guess how much of it was true.

“You worked with him?”

“For a bit.” Bodie spun the wheel of the Capri gently, and his lips tightened in memory. “Until we disagreed on something.”

Doyle had a feeling he knew where this was going. He opened his mouth at the same time as Bodie and together they said, “There was this girl……”

Bodie cast him an annoyed look and Doyle grinned impudently at him. “Snap!”

“Anyway,” Bodie went on, “I haven’t seen him in years.”

He fell silent while Doyle checked the file, lost in his thoughts. It hadn’t been just a girl. Not that time and not with the Spaniard. Not when his brother had appetites that could, at best, be described as perverse, and there’d been trouble all right. He took the next left, on Doyle’s instruction, still musing on the past. There’d been others in that little gang, he remembered. Louis, Stebbings, Rodriguez. For a time Connolly too, the bomb maker. And of course Lola. His eyes darkened momentarily, memory bringing ugly images. The Spaniard, Lola and Felipe.

“There’s the pub,” Doyle said sharply, jolting Bodie back to the present and he spun the wheel, guiding the Capri into the kerb, tucking his musings to the back of his mind.

They swung out of the car and looked at each other. Doyle tilted his head and raised his brows, full lips curling in amusement. Bodie scowled at his partner but dutifully turned around and trotted off to the back of the pub, as usual, no words needed between them. 

It would have surprised Bodie to know that their fellow CI5 agents often discussed this odd ability of theirs to second guess each other so accurately. It would have surprised him even more to learn that much of the speculation centred squarely on how he could accurately predict Doyle, who was renowned for being so unpredictable. But Bodie never gave it a thought, took it for granted, and right now he knew that Doyle would scare their quarry out of the back door of the pub, and right into his waiting arms.

The lane was narrow and overflowing rubbish bins littered the gutters. Bodie picked his way through the stinking sludgy mess, right hand inside his jacket, palm comfortably around the butt of his gun. 

He was nowhere near the back entrance when a thin man, in full flight, burst out of the door, and continued his mad dash away from him, up to the next corner. A split second later, his partner came haring out in hot pursuit. Bodie, surprised, took in the scene in one glance. Doyle was fast on his feet, faster than anyone Bodie knew, Bardon didn’t stand a chance with Doyle after him. There was only one way for Bardon to go at the corner, and that was back to the front of the pub, and Doyle would have him by then.

Bodie doubled back and sped off the way he had come, to cut him off from the main street. He barrelled around the side lane and took off up the road to the corner where Bardon would emerge. Chatter and juke box music hummed from the pub and somewhere to his rear, he heard a car revving up.

Bodie risked a quick glance behind him. A saloon car, dark in colour had eased out from the kerb. Ahead of him Bardon appeared out of the side street and turned in his direction. Bodie kept his hand on his semi auto and slowed down, ready to yank it out. The car behind him was closer, the whir of its engine getting louder. Bodie saw Doyle whip out of the side street a hair's breath away from getting his hands on Bardon. A flicker of movement to his left and Bodie jerked his gaze instinctively sideways. A man was standing there, having just stepped through the frosted glass doors. Bodie took in the face in a single glance, half his attention on Bardon and Doyle and half on the car behind him. 

But the face jolted his memory and he turned his head again in stunned disbelief. Only five minutes earlier he’d been thinking about him, and suddenly here he was. Older, wearier, greyer but Connolly’s startled blue eyes widened in reciprocated recognition. 

Bodie had a vague thought about Cowley and his refusal to admit to coincidences before events speedily caught up with him. Doyle shouted his name, snapping his attention back and just in time. The car behind him swerved, mounting the footpath, and only his sharply trained reflexes prevented him from being mown down. He jerked backwards, arching his body and twisting, half falling to one knee. He very nearly made it. If the car had kept on its track, he would have done, would have escaped injury. But instead it swerved back again, back onto the road and the rear, swinging around caught him a blow to the back of his head as he wrenched away from it. 

Pain exploded right through his skull, as though someone had dropped a bowling ball on his head. Stars erupted like Guy Fawkes fireworks across his vision and from a long way off he thought he heard someone yell. He had the oddest sensation that he was floating just off the ground and opened his eyes to see scudding clouds racing in agitated turmoil across the sky. A face appeared silhouetted against those racing clouds and Bodie blinked. Connolly gazed down at him, surprise still evident on his lined face.

“You’re back as well Bodie?” he asked, very faintly. “Coming home as it were. I suppose we all do in the end.” He then looked sideways, patently worried

Bodie dazedly followed his gaze and saw a slim young man running towards him. His dark curly hair was whipped back with the speed of his sprint and he had a gun in his hand. His face looked very hard and very angry.

“I think he’s after you, my son, and I’ll bet you a bottle of scotch he’s a cop. You’re nicked, Bodie. Pity – there’s some work going that may have suited you.” Connolly backed away. Or maybe he didn’t. Bodie wasn’t certain anymore, in either case everything faded away, except for one last agonised yell. His name.

 

**************

 

Doyle had seen the car racing up behind his partner, just as he was about to grab Bardon’s collar. Saw the danger and he slowed slightly, diverted from his quarry by the more pressing image of Bodie being run over. His shout of warning came a fraction too late as he saw the car deliberately swerve towards his team mate, saw Bodie only just manage to evade a full on hit, and then witnessed the boot swing wildly, slamming into his partner’s head with enough force for Doyle to hear the resultant bang. 

His pursuer's attention successfully sidetracked, Bardon skipped across the road, and Doyle realised with a start that the car had carried on, was now aimed for him. His leap to safety had him half way up the wall of the nearest building, hanging for grim death onto the bars protecting the windows. The car skidded to a halt, the driver indistinguishable. Bardon, recovering his wits, jumped into the passenger seat and the car gunned away, before he’d even closed the door. Doyle dropped from the window, bringing his Walther up in a two handed grip as it screeched loudly, skidding around the corner. He swore and then glanced back to see Bodie flat on his back. An older man was leaning over him. Doyle wasted no more time on Bardon, and using his natural speed, fairly flew along the pavement towards his fallen partner.

The older man backed away as Doyle reached him, holstering his weapon as he crouched down. Bodie’s dark blue eyes were closed, his lips white and Doyle carefully lifted his head, traipsing his fingers lightly through the soft dark hair, over the solid curve of his partner’s skull, where the rear of the car had clobbered him. No blood, but there was a sizable lump there all the same. Doyle felt it carefully and then gently laid Bodie’s head back on to the pavement. He patted his pockets down, searching for his RT.

Bodie roused briefly, struggled to sit up. “Connolly?”

Doyle held him down, hand on one shoulder. “Lie still mate, and you’d better thank your lucky stars you’ve got a thick skull.”

But those dark blue eyes had drifted shut again.

 

**************

**Chapter 2.**

 

George Cowley was fuming as he arrived at the hospital. He walked in to the usual chaos associated with the casualty department and flashed his ID to the attending desk clerk. The desk clerk was well accustomed to CI5 agents and their frequent injuries. So frequent that a ward was permanently kept available and doctors on twenty-four hour standby. Cowley knew where to go and his anger hadn’t abated one jot by the time he saw Ray Doyle, slumped in a chair outside the ward.

“Well?” he demanded.

Doyle correctly interpreted his chief’s mood and stood up, hands on hips, ready for battle. “They aren’t sure. They don’t think it’s anything too serious, large lump on the back of his head, slightly concussed.”

“A simple pick up. That’s all,” Cowley ranted, his Scots accent pronounced, venting his irritation on his young operative. “Yet Bardon gets away and Bodie is in here. How did it happen?”

Doyle wasn’t Bodie. He wasn’t military trained, wasn’t conditioned to not argue with a commanding officer and his years in CI5 hadn’t squashed that unfortunate tendency, no matter how many times he’d been reprimanded for it. And anyone who knew Ray Doyle would tell you it wasn’t in his nature to hold his tongue anyway. Cowley knew Ray Doyle quite well and Doyle didn’t disappoint him. 

His young agent stiffened, temper sparking almost immediately in those expressive green-blue eyes, his street-smart voice hard and to the point. “He had a mate in a car. His mate decided to run us down.”

“You should have been prepared for it.” Cowley was still bristling. A man down and the informant escaping, right from under the grasp of one of his top teams. “I don’t train you the way I do for you to be taken in by…”

“Bardon knew we were coming. I’d barely got in the door before he was running. Bodie wasn’t set up to get him at the back, someone tipped him off.”

Cowley was successfully diverted by this announcement and stared shrewdly at his operative’s mutinous expression. “If he was tipped off, why would he wait for you?”

Doyle shrugged, still rankling at his boss. “How should I know? Maybe for his friend to run us over. What’d you want him for anyway?”

“His last lot of information wasn’t reliable.”

Doyle shrugged again, more concerned for Bodie than Bardon, and wandered over to the glass-panelled door, to gaze in. Bodie was laid out on a bed. They’d removed his jacket and holster, undone the buttons of his shirt, the better to check for injury. The doctor was there, feeling the lump on the back of his head gently.

Cowley came and stood next to him, somewhat calmer. “Unusual for Bodie not to get out of the way in time, not with his reflexes.”

Doyle didn’t answer, just leaned against the jamb, remembering Bodie’s attention on the doorway of the pub, as though someone was there, someone who held him spellbound, oblivious to the danger creeping up on him. Doyle was easy to read and Cowley was an expert at reading him. There was something Doyle wasn’t saying and he got the distinct feeling his agent was unsure about it. “Doyle?”

Doyle heaved a sigh, worrying at it. “He was distracted by something.”

“Distracted? By what?”

“Dunno, but enough that he wasn’t paying attention. The car would have hit him if I hadn’t yelled out. Then all the way here, he kept asking for Connolly.”

“Connolly?” Cowley’s attention had shifted from Bardon to this new development. “Who’s Connolly?”

But Doyle shook his head, at a loss. “No idea.”

 

***************

 

He awoke to a dimness that signalled evening. The room was muted, shadowed, but machines were lit up and he didn’t need that overlaying disinfectant smell to know he was in a hospital. His head ached, throbbing powerfully, and he put a hand up wincing, felt the lump on the back of his skull. Head injury then. He leaned shakily up on one elbow; saw that he was still more or less dressed, and that he was quite alone. He waited until the slight nausea abated and then carefully sat up, swinging his legs around. His head protested this decision with a stronger pulsating ache but Bodie was resilient to pain. He sat for a minute and tried to collect his thoughts. 

Startlingly, none came. He frowned searching his memory for what he had been doing to sustain this bump, but there was nothing there. The thought wasn’t at all comforting and he felt a flare of panic, before forcing himself to relax marginally. He’d had a whack on the head that much was plain by the lump and the jackhammer drilling inside his cranium. He’d had whacks on the head before where he’d woken up disorientated and unsure of where he was; this was no different. No doubt it would come back soon. He sat for a minute adjusting to the sensation of having nothing in the short term, but at least he knew who he was. And what he did. The rest would come back. He firmly pushed away the little voice that whispered what if to him and instead concentrated on what he did know.

The last thing he remembered, hazily, was a face. A face bending over him, telling him there was work. Connolly. Bodie had worked with Connolly before, a while ago now. He gripped the bed and another memory came, one of a lean man, running like the wind, dark curly hair whipping back, young face hard and a gun in his right hand. Copper. Connolly had said he was a cop. Bodie tried for more, but it seemed to increase the headache. Instead he cautiously stood up. What did the cops want him for? What was his last job? He couldn’t remember that either, but if they were after him, it wouldn’t do to hang around here. He’d have to find somewhere else, until the memory came back, which shouldn’t be long. He looked around to be sure, but he was definitely alone and he silently crossed the room.

There was a guard at the door. Bodie slunk to the side of the glass panels and peered out. Uh oh. What had he been doing for the cops to think he was worth this? He watched the guard with growing disapproval. Obviously young and inexperienced he was patrolling the corridor in an attempt to stay awake. He was no match for a pro like Bodie. He simply waited until the man had turned his back for his downward leg and slipped out of the door in the other direction. For a minute he hesitated, glancing around, as though looking for someone, someone he thought should have been there, but dismissed the notion almost as soon as it materialised. Who would be waiting for him? 

The night was still and calm as he walked out of the hospital front doors and he felt the chill air right through his shirt. He stood for a minute in the carpark looking around, doing up his buttons. He couldn’t recall where he’d been staying either, where he’d have spare clothes and equipment. Bugger it. He closed his eyes and massaged the lump gently, willing himself to remember, but there was just a blankness that he found extremely unnerving. Connolly. Connolly stayed firmly in front of that blankness. Connolly had said there was work to be had and Bodie knew where Connolly would be. Connolly always stayed with his old lady in East London, regardless of how much money he may be in possession of. He had said once, that his aging mother was the only reason he ever made the effort to return to England at all.

He looked around again, considering. He could hotwire a car, but it would be traced. Better off with public transport. He dug around in his trousers pockets hopefully, and located a few coins. And something else. He pulled out his hand and looked down. Nestled amongst the loose change was a key. A door key. Bodie frowned at it, but without an address it was just a key. He pushed it back into his pocket, along with a couple of 10p coins. Knowing where he was, he turned at the gate, and walked off into the night.

 

**********

 

Doyle finished the report and walked up to Cowley’s office to hand it in. His chief was at his desk, the usual pile of files stacked around him. He glanced up as Doyle placed the sheets of paper in front of him. “The hospital phoned.” He picked up the report and scanned it, before removing his glasses to look shrewdly up at his young agent. “He’s all right, nothing a couple of days rest won’t cure. They want to keep him in overnight for observation.”

Doyle smiled briefly. Keep Bodie in hospital overnight? He decided to swing by on the way home. Bodie would need a lift and that way he could keep an eye on him. He turned to go and that mild Scots voice stopped him. “Tell him, he’s on sick leave for two days, either in or out of the hospital, Doyle.”

Doyle glanced back over his shoulder, but Cowley had again turned his attention to his files. Doyle tilted his head in acknowledgement, not really surprised at how well his chief knew Bodie.

The hospital wasn’t as quiet as he expected, as he alighted from the car. Cribbins was there, flushed and panicky, clutching Bodie’s leather jacket. “He’s gone, I turned my back for a split second and when I came back he was gone.”

“Gone?” Doyle stood squarely in front of the new recruit and even as he felt the annoyance, he knew in all fairness he couldn’t blame him. His job had been to stop people entering the ward, not prevent Bodie from coming out. And anyway, Bodie was quite capable of getting around a raw recruit like Cribbins. “What do you mean gone?”

“Gone from the hospital gone. I’d got up to walk a bit, keep myself awake and then the nurse came by to do her fifteen-minute obs and he wasn’t there. He didn’t take his jacket so we thought he must still be in the hospital, but we looked, he’s not.”

Doyle frowned, took the jacket from Cribbins unresisting fingers. “How long ago?”

“I don’t know, I’d guess around twenty minutes now.”

Doyle inserted himself back into the gold Capri. “He’s probably just gone home. Bodie’s not a fan of hospitals. Phone Cowley and tell him I’ll call by there and check on him.”

Cribbins nodded; glad to relinquish this particular job over to someone else. Like the rest of new recruits, he was very in awe of these two, knew that Cowley usually used them for his most dangerous assignments, and he had no wish to start off on the wrong foot with either of them.

Doyle started the car and squealed out of the parking bay, shaking his head in a mixture of irritation and resignation. What was Bodie playing at? A knock on the head wasn’t something to be taken lightly, no matter how much he disliked hospitals. Doyle was quite prepared to give him a right rollicking when he got there, prickling for a good fight after his run in with Cowley at the hospital earlier.

The traffic was surprisingly light and he turned into the cul de sac where Bodie’s current flat was located, to find the structure in total darkness. He idled in, puzzled as he glanced up at the windows. Perhaps he’d gone to bed. He switched off the engine and opened the door, carefully checking the surroundings from sheer habit. All was quiet. Doyle cautiously walked across the pavement, skirting around the low brick wall and hedge that gave the ground floor flats some privacy and fished in his pockets for his lock picks. Bodie’s door proved no problem for someone who’d been picking locks since he was eleven and Doyle pushed it open gently. It was quiet, he couldn’t sense anything, but he erred on the side of caution and kept to the edge of the doorframe before reaching around and flicking on the lights. 

Bodie’s pad illuminated up instantly, tastefully and expensively decorated, neat and tidy with everything in its place. A sure sign of military background, as Doyle had needled his partner on more than one occasion. He stepped in, pulling his gun as he did so, not entirely sure why he was uneasy. He disarmed the alarm and walked silently forward. The living area was empty and he moved to the bedroom door. The bed was made up, smooth and unwrinkled. Nothing moved. No one home and no one had been home since this morning. Doyle reholstered his gun and looked around. The uneasiness grew. So where would he go? The obvious answer was a girl, someone to coo and sigh over him and kiss his head better, but with the well endowed Maria back in Italy, Bodie was between relationships and although he knew an ample amount of women, Doyle couldn’t see him going to one of his more casual birds when he wasn’t well. 

He crossed to the phone and dialled headquarters. Cowley had been waiting for his call. “Any luck?”

”None sir, he hasn’t been back here.”

“Damn him, I’ll have his hide for this.”

Doyle waited but all Cowley said was, “Well I suppose he’ll check in when he’s ready. Go home Doyle.”

Doyle hung up the phone and stared at it thoughtfully. His partner hadn’t in any way been in the here and now in the ambulance but he’d been insistent on one name.

Connolly. Who was Connolly? Bodie spun a lot of tales about his murky past but Doyle couldn’t remember a Connolly in any of them. He swore softly. If Bodie hadn’t been distracted by whoever it was in the doorway of the pub, then none of this would have happened. They would have nabbed Bardon and brought him in, end of story. Who had distracted him? Doyle was too wired to go home, particularly while he didn’t know where his partner was. He rubbed a forefinger reflectively along his bottom lip, weighing up the likelihood of this unknown character being the reason for Bodie absconding from the hospital and making off without telling anyone where he was going. The uneasiness skittered up his spine like tickling mice and his innate instinct made up his mind for him. 

He set the alarms and let himself out of Bodie’s flat. The interior of the Capri was warm after the chill air outside and Doyle reached over to Bodie’s jacket. His ID was still in the inside pocket and Doyle carefully removed the photograph from the small wallet, placing it safely inside his own jacket pocket. No point in advertising that Bodie, or himself for that matter, were CI5. Not until he knew what was going on. Doyle idly cruised out of Bodie’s street and set a course for East London. To that pub, and perhaps, a man named Connolly. He doubted he’d find anything, but it was better than sitting at home stewing and worrying.

 

**************

 

The knock at the door was soft and discreet and Connolly looked up from the newspaper in alarm. He wasn’t expecting anybody, in fact he’d not had a single visitor in all the time he’d been back in England, and the only person he’d spoken to was the Spaniard. Then he relaxed marginally. Carlos, it had to be. He got up and approached the door but still had enough of the old ways about him to pause before opening it. “Who is it?”

“Open the door Connolly. It’s Bodie.”

Bodie? Connolly opened the door a crack, to verify that it was indeed the same young man he’d seen walloped by the rear of a car that afternoon. The figure outside his door stood up straight, powerful shoulders and brooding stare instantly recognisable. He wore a collared shirt and black trousers, but no jacket against the late night chill and his face was as unreadable as the last time Connolly had worked with him, back in the Congo  
.  
“Bodie?” He opened the door wider and Bodie stepped through. “What are you doing here?”

“Same as you I expect.” Bodie looked around alertly. “You said you had a job.”

“Yes, but you were arrested, I saw that copper nick you.”

“Yeah well I got away didn’t I? Now I need some work. And hopefully an exit back out of the country before they nab me again.”

“What’d they want you for?”

Bodie looked hard at him with narrowed eyes, and Connolly held up his hands. “Just asking. Thought you’d be in the nick by now, or at least a hospital.”

Bodie absently rubbed the back of his head. His headache was getting worse and he suspected that whatever pain killers had been administered before he woke up in the hospital were now wearing off. “Got any aspirin, Connolly?”

Connolly gave him a sour look and crossed to the poky kitchen.

“Where’s your old lady?” Bodie asked following him.

Connolly eyed him uncertainly as he filled a glass with water, then reached into a top cupboard for the packet of aspirin. “Dead mate. She died years ago.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Bodie nodded at the kitchen. “Left you this place then?”

“Yeah,” Connolly answered cautiously.

“So what’s this job?”

Connolly shook his head. “Don’t know the details yet. Only just found out about it.”

Bodie’s head came up, instantly wary. “Who?”

But Connolly wouldn’t say. 

“You only have one talent,” Bodie said musingly, throwing the aspirin down his throat and taking a healthy swallow of the water. He put the glass down on the draining board and leaned forward, looking intently at the smaller man. “Bombs.”

“He’s recruiting for arms as well,” Connolly said defensively, automatically clenching his hands in an attempt to still the tremors still pulsating through his fingers. 

Bodie straightened up. “Then how about we go meet with him and I’ll see if there’s a job suitable for me.”

Connolly gave Bodie a rather penetrating stare and shoved his hands in his pockets so the younger man wouldn’t see them shake. “You’re different Bodie. The same but different. What have you been doing all these years?”

Bodie hadn’t a clue but he wasn’t about to let Connolly know that. All he knew was that he wanted to put distance between himself and the cops for whatever it was that he was supposed to have done. To think of his memory loss was just too damn scary at the moment and Bodie didn’t like that feeling. He’d thought, he’d hoped, that it would have returned by now, but the headaches were still bad and he suspected they were the cause of the continuing blankness. Either way he had to lay low until it returned, or he may end up in the nick for something he couldn’t remember doing. 

Connolly seemed to be echoing his thoughts. “That young cop, the one that was after you. He didn’t look happy. Might be best if you lay low for a bit.”

 

****************

**Chapter 3.**

 

Rita had worked at the King’s Head for nearly six months now and was firmly of the opinion that no head, or any other part of a King’s body for that matter, would be caught dead in the taproom, if the current clientele were anything to go by. Freer with their hands than with any sort of monetary tip, but a job was a job and she knew that she had a pretty cushy one, provided she kept wearing the low cut tops that had Harry the publican forgetting what her face looked like. Rita was under no illusions that her Prince Charming would swoop into the King’s Head and bear her away from all this, but still, a girl could dream a little. It sure beat the regular old lags and the current crime kings. Her eyes strayed again to the Spanish man, sitting as usual by the window. Big, powerful, his face lean, dusky and hard and she shivered slightly whenever he turned his eyes in her direction. He was waiting for somebody again and Rita was smart enough to know when to be stupid. It was none of her business, what he was doing here, but she could guess all right. 

She pulled a beer with expert hands, swiftly exchanging the coins on the counter for the foaming glass and looked up to serve the next person. And stopped, speechless, mouth dropping unbecomingly open. He was clean for a start, and young and he smiled a wide white smile at her, showing that he also had all his teeth, and that was a rarity in the King’s Head. 

He stood, taller than her, with a mop of dark curls and a beguiling full-lipped mouth and she was spellbound by wide greenish blue eyes, which looked her over with a faintly sardonic air before producing a small photo from the pocket of his leather jacket. He flicked it through slim fingers with the dexterity of a magician with a pack of cards before flashing the image face up for her appraisal. “Looking for him.”

Rita reluctantly pulled her gaze away from those mesmerising eyes and glanced down.

A dark haired, dark eyed man looked menacingly out and Rita blinked. Another handsome one. What? Had the world suddenly turned upside down and gone barmy? Good looking men did not come into her pub, not young and clean and fit, like this one. And not the one in the photograph either. She looked up suspiciously and he caught it at once, abruptly altering his face, softening his stare, lazily looking her over with half lidded come-to-bed eyes as though he liked what he saw. It didn’t take much to impress Rita but a man like Ray Doyle was akin to having all your Christmases come at once.

“Well maybe I have and maybe I haven’t,” she said, smiling at him in return. “What’s it worth then?”

Doyle just stopped himself from rolling his eyes. She was a right tart this one, hair brassy blond with dark regrowth, chipped nail polish and an overpowering cheap scent that made him want to wrinkle his nose in repugnance - but she liked the look of him and that was all he needed from her at the moment. Bodie might be the ladies man, but Doyle knew how to get what he wanted when he wanted it. For all her coy games, it was immediately apparent that she didn’t know Bodie, there’d been no recognition whatsoever in her transparent face when he had flipped the photo over. He looked around casually but couldn’t spot his partner in the crowded taproom. Tilting his head to the barmaid he winked outrageously at her. “Well it might be worth quite a bit for you. If he comes in here, you’ll let me know?”

She nodded enthusiastically, leaning forward to give her cleavage prominence, flirting quite openly with him.

“Good girl.” Doyle obligingly dropped his eyes to the goods amply displayed in the low cut top, then lifted his gaze knowingly back to her. “Oh by the way, don’t know a regular by the name of Connolly do you?”

Rita blinked. “No, not offhand, but I could ask around for you?”

Doyle gave her a cheeky smile, slid the photograph into his pocket and moved away from the bar, switching off the charm, like a tap. His skin was prickling down his spine, alerting him to something not quite right - what Cowley called his copper’s nose and Bodie, unkindly, his nosey parker excuse. Doyle didn’t know what it was, but he’d had the ability well before he’d trod some of the meanest streets of London during his time in the Met. A natural ability, honed to perfection during his turbulent teenage years and he was nothing if not street savvy. 

It was fairly obvious what this pub was chiefly used for and, amused, he thought they might as well set up a neon light, Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap. The pub had been extended at some point, and there was a group around a dartboard in the next room. Doyle sidled expertly through the press of bodies, hands firmly in his pockets; making no effort to blend in, as there was no way he could have done so. Not with this lot.

Rita dreamily watched him go, thinking that the man shouldn’t be allowed to wear jeans that indecently tight, not with an arse like that anyway. Bloody criminal and if she hadn’t had the bar between them, she mightn’t have been able to keep her hands to herself. Skin flushing warm, she unashamedly watched him walk in those snug Levi’s until he disappeared into the games room before sighing and turning to the next person at the bar. Old Georgie and he’d forgotten his teeth again, his nicotined fingers holding out the coins needed for a beer, spitting and dribbling down his whiskered chin.

Rita sighed again, and took a clean glass from the tray. Harry came up beside her, patted her familiarly on the bottom, a fondle she had endured for so long, she no longer even noticed him doing it. “Who was that?”

Rita wasn’t surprised that Harry had noticed the man. Quite apart from the fact that he was good looking enough to stand out like sore thumb in this place, he also had a toughness about him, a hardness, his movements lithe and agile, that spoke louder than words that he wasn’t someone to cross.

“Looking for a bloke, showed me a picture.”

Harry frowned, eyes on the games room where the man had vanished. “What bloke?”

She shrugged. “I dunno, never laid eyes on him, though I wouldn’t mind.”

Harry gave her a searching look, then patted her bottom again and went back to his duties. Rita thought about those jeans and smiled to herself.

Doyle’s presence hadn’t gone unnoticed by others in the taproom either. Juan Carlos had stayed in his corner watching intently as the barmaid had spoken to the tough looking man at the bar and once he’d gone through to the games room he immediately stood up. If he was the law and they were taking an interest in the pub, then Carlos would make himself scarce for a bit. He was annoyed at this development, he hadn’t yet found an arms man for the job and time was running short. He swivelled around the table and headed for the back door of the premises. Passing the bar, he stopped by the brassy blond at the till.

She looked up at him; blue eyes wide and the Spaniard leaned in. “Who was that man?”

“He didn’t say.”

“What did he want?”

“A man. He showed me a picture, I’ve never seen him before.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes. No, he mentioned someone called Connolly.”

The Spaniard straightened up and swung cold black eyes in the direction of the games room. He pulled a tenner from his pocket and handed it to the surprised barmaid. She took it quickly and greedily stuffed it down her low cut blouse. Carlos barely noticed. “That is for you to forget me. Eh?”

She nodded fervently and, pleased, the Spaniard moved towards the rear of the pub, to the back door, intending to intercept Connolly before he arrived. If he was going to arrive that is, but Carlos thought he would, he hadn’t missed the yearning on Connolly’s worn face and he’d given him till ten to make his decision. He glanced at his watch; it was ten to ten now. He’d waylay Connolly outside, the last thing he needed was to have this young nosey parker interfering, regardless of who he was. The bomb maker was his, he was sure of it and once he had his arms man, there would be no further need to risk coming to this pub. 

Carlos might have been less pleased with himself, however, had he noticed a pair of alert greenish blue eyes, discreetly watching him from the shadows of the games room and a small, if satisfied smile on those lips that had so beguiled Rita. 

Doyle eased out of the crowd and casually followed the big Spaniard. Rita clutched her hand to the ten-pound note in her blouse as he passed, winking conspiratorially at her, before her eyes dropped helplessly, of their own accord to his denim clad backside as he weaved his way to the rear of the pub.

 

*************

 

Bodie was, despite his best intentions not to, starting to worry. It had been a couple of hours since he’d left the hospital and he still couldn’t recall events leading up to the accident. He toyed with the idea of getting medical help then dismissed it. Whatever that cop was after it wouldn’t do to hand himself over and that’s what would happen if he sought treatment. They would have put an alert out by now, along with his description. If he got a job, skipped the country, he could get medical help then, and apart from the headache he felt quite all right.

Connolly led the way down the back streets to the King’s Head, shuffling along, hunched into his dark coat. Bodie had accepted the loan of a jacket from the older man when it was time to leave. He had no idea why he wasn’t wearing one, they’d obviously removed it at the hospital, and he wished now that he’d taken the time to look for it. It may have contained something to help him know what he was currently doing, who he was working for.

Connolly’s jacket was a bit tight across the shoulders but Bodie was grateful for the warmth as well as the switchblade knife that was in the pocket. The night was chilly and damp and he walked just behind the bomb maker, hearing rats in the rubbish scattered around the overflowing bins. 

Noise from the pub was audible, long before they got anywhere near it. Laughter, the clink of glasses, the soft whack of cues against billiard balls, shouts and arguments. And a jukebox, blaring out T Rex.

“He may not take you on,” Connolly cautioned, regretting the whole idea now. The Spaniard had left well before Bodie’s appearance at the pub that afternoon but Connolly was belatedly remembering the last time they had worked together. It hadn’t ended well. Bodie and the Spaniard had history, and Connolly wasn’t idiotic enough to put himself between them.

“I’m the best arms man there is,” Bodie replied evenly. “He’d be a fool not to.”

The back door beckoned and Connolly hesitated. He pointed to the shadows. “Best you stay there Bodie, I’ll go see if he wants to see you first.”

Bodie raised an eyebrow but did as he was told, melting into the brickwork by the rubbish bins, the dark coat he was wearing blending him perfectly into the night.

Connolly moved towards the back entrance, but before he could enter, a large figure filled the doorway, blocking it. The Spaniard saw Connolly in the faint light from the doorway and for a minute was relieved that his instinct had been correct and the bomb maker had returned. “Connolly, you have someone with a big interest in you.”

In the shadows Bodie stiffened immediately, recognising that voice instantly, as if he’d only just heard it last week. The Spaniard. Damn and bugger. Hatred welled, bubbling up like a red mist, swirling across his vision, as he sucked in his breath, remembering. Remembering the Spaniard and Lola and…and Felipe. His initial impulse was to walk away, leave, before his urge to do the man violence got the better of him, but his head still ached and his memory was still a blank and where would he go? He had no idea until his memory returned. And besides all that there was the ever-present worry of the police wanting him. He needed some way of getting out of the country before he was nabbed again. Needed the cash to arrange it. He needed this job. But Christ, the Spaniard. He couldn’t do it. He’d kill him, or kill Felipe. Or kill them both.

He clenched his jaw and looked heavenward, trying to calm down, trying to control the hatred. _Use it boy, use your anger_. The firm voice echoed in his head, lightly spiced with a northern burr and obeying the instruction instinctively, he allowed the rage to wash past him, sensing the owner of the voice nodding in approval. Bodie tried to hold onto it, tried to bring forth the rest, the face, the name, but it slipped deceitfully from his mind, slithering away into the nothing that was his short term memory. His fingers burned and he realised he was gripping the brickwork hard enough to shed skin. He made himself relax and gave silent thanks to whoever belonged to that voice and concentrated again. He was older now. And wiser. Maybe he could control himself enough to work with the Spaniard again, but it didn’t mean Carlos would reciprocate the sentiment. He didn’t forgive and he certainly didn’t forget. And his one blind spot was his damned brother. And Lola. 

The Spaniard was still speaking to Connolly, his low voice flat and annoyed. “I think he was the police looking for you. Young, arrogant, plain clothes. You are in trouble with the police?”

“Me?” Connolly’s voice came out in a squeak and he cast a nervous look towards the shadows where he knew Bodie to be lurking. “No of course not. They aren’t after me.”

“He is looking for you. If you wish to work on this job, we must leave now.”

“But you need an arms man.”

“Yes,” the Spaniard agreed, “I do and I am running out of time to find one. Come, this policeman bothers me.”

Bodie heard them moving, watched them pass his hiding place. He was about to step out after them, when his peripheral vision caught a shadow detaching itself from the doorway of the pub behind them. He pressed back and waited. The shadow passed for a split second into the light, but Bodie recognised him instantly. The young cop from earlier in the day. And the Spaniard hadn’t noticed him. Had no idea he was being tailed. Whatever the Spaniard was up to it was in danger of being blown wide open and he didn’t even know it. Bodie smiled coldly.

The shadow passed Bodie and hesitated briefly. Bodie held his breath, stayed absolutely immobile, knowing he was invisible, was highly trained to be so. But, unbelievably, the head was turning - turning back towards him as if the man had sensed him, although it couldn’t possibly be true, and on that shaky thought, Bodie went into action. He swiftly stepped out behind the young man and brought up Connolly’s switchblade knife. One powerful arm wrapped around the man’s throat and the other held the blade to his side, sharp enough to pierce leather, shirt and jab ever so slightly into the warm, firm flesh beneath.

“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” he whispered with deadly intensity. 

The man was much the same height as himself and heard clearly enough, Bodie’s mouth being right by his ear, the jab of the blade in his side reinforcing the instruction. 

After an initial start of surprise he obeyed, displaying no fear that Bodie could discern and Bodie was good at recognising fear. In fact, if anything, the man seemed strangely relieved and Bodie frowned, puzzled as to his behaviour. He would have expected some sort of resistance, some sort of struggle, in spite of the knife, anything but this meek acquiescence.

The Spaniard had heard him as well, whipping around and pulling a gun from his pocket with admirable speed. He levelled it at both of them, black eyes glinting dangerously trying to see in the darkness. 

“Don’t shoot, Carlos,” Connolly blurted out, suddenly fearful. “Kill someone here and there’ll be hell to pay.”

Bodie hurriedly dragged his captive backwards, into the faint light from the doorway, and the Spaniard followed, finger on the trigger, ready to spill their guts all over the litter at their feet. The soft golden glow fell on both their faces and there was sufficient to also illuminate the Spaniard’s shock as he saw them. 

“You!” he spat, eyes flicking from Bodie to the copper, and the watching Connolly wasn’t entirely sure which man the venom was directed at. Bodie’s face was frosty, controlled; the young copper merely looked bemused and made no move to fight free. Of course, the blade in his side could be responsible for that, but Connolly didn’t think so somehow.

Carlos rattled off a stream of hot Spanish before finally mastering himself enough to attempt English again. “I did not think to ever look on your face again.”

“The feeling’s mutual I assure you,” Bodie said coldly, not relaxing his grip for a minute. Instinctively he knew that the man he held against his chest wasn’t to be taken lightly. Bodie could feel the lean muscled strength of him belying his slim frame, knew that he was armed, could feel the weapon snug under his left arm, although the man wisely made no attempt to retrieve it and Bodie had no hand free to relieve him of it.

“You needed an arms man,” Connolly worriedly pointed out, and his hands shook so much he thought he would rip the lining of his pockets. “Bodie needs a job. He’s the best there is.”

“I will never work with this man again,” Carlos said, voice flat with hostility. “You should not have brought him here, Connolly, and I should kill him now and be done with it.”

“Then why don’t you?” Bodie sneered.

The Spaniard stared at him, black eyes glittering in the darkness, hate on his face.

“Face it, Carlos, you need an arms man. You need me.” Bodie firmly kept the slim body of the policeman in front of him, using him as a shield.

“Not you. You are mad to suggest it. There are others.”

“Better than me?” Bodie enquired softly. He jabbed slightly harder with the knife and the man held flush against him grunted in surprised discomfort. “With the police taking an interest? Believe me, I don’t want to work with you again either, but I suppose we’re both in a bit of a pickle aren’t we?”

“You will run out of time, Carlos,” Connolly implored, frightened that the Spaniard would pull the trigger, spill blood and then the cops would be all over them. “You need another man or it’s not going to work. It is only for this one job.”

The Spaniard did not lower the gun nor did he speak, just stared at Bodie furiously, his grip on the gun tight and unwavering, indecision mixing now, with the hatred on his face. Connolly was right, it would all go belly up without the extra arms man, but Bodie…. He recalled the last time he’d worked with Bodie clearly enough. He had a reputation for being loyal to whoever was currently paying him and he’d done the job dependably, professionally, despite his young age. If only his brother hadn’t… Well, what was done was done. His brother had a weakness. But that weakness did not make him any less his brother.

Bodie sighed theatrically. “Suit yourself. Here, hold him then, he was following you. You would have been nicked if not for me. Serve you right for being careless.”

And saying that; he let go of the man and gave him a little push. The Spaniard still didn’t move and Connolly didn’t dare breathe, standing transfixed, clutching the inside of his jacket pockets like a lifeline to stop the shaking.

“Be careful,” Bodie warned casually as he turned away, “He’s armed.”

The copper swung around glaring and the Spaniard instantly stepped forward, cocked the gun and brought it up against his curly head. “Do not move, or I will shoot you!”

Bodie had started to walk away.

“Wait.” The command came out like a whiplash.

Bodie stopped but didn’t turn around. A slow smirk spread across his face.

“I do not like this. We have no love for each other no? But as you say, circumstances interfere.” He exhaled with annoyance. “We will work together this one last time, and then I will never see your face again.”

“You have my word on that,” Bodie murmured and turned around. He expected hostility from the Spaniard and received it. 

He didn’t expect the look he got from the copper and was momentarily surprised at the sheer force of it. Incredulous anger masked that open face and fury shot in blue sparks from those wide eyes. Bodie frowned, something tugging in the vacant space that was his memory. The young policeman still didn’t show any sort of fear; instead he was glaring at Bodie as if he’d done something wrong. Bodie shook his head and grimaced as the contusion at the back of his head complained bitterly. He put up a hand to probe at it, wincing again and when he next looked up the policeman was giving him an entirely different look altogether. One of faint concern. Bodie looked quickly away. For some reason he unsettled Bodie and so he deliberately walked past him, away from those expressive eyes, which watched him so familiarly.

“Search him first,” Carlos ordered and Bodie stopped, uncertain, still not sure why the man unsettled him so. His head was aching and he wanted to go back to Connolly’s flat and sleep. Reluctantly he turned back to the man in the scruffy jeans and leather jacket, finding the Walther without guidance and then patting his hands expertly down the man’s slim frame. The anger was still there, Bodie could feel it, emanating in waves from his lean hard body.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed on a breath as Bodie reached behind him, checking the back waistband of his jeans. Bodie gave him a sharp look. The man had spoken familiarly, as though he knew him. But how could he? Unless he’d nicked him before now. Bodie decided to ignore him, a move that didn’t go down well, judging by the infuriated looks he was receiving.

His brisk and efficient search uncovered a radio transmitter, which the Spaniard dropped in the nearest rubbish bin along with a set of car keys, a pocket knife which he thriftily shoved in his own pocket and an ID card with an additional photo. He handed it to the Spaniard, who flipped it open and held it up to the light. Upon reading it, his face if anything became grimmer and he glanced at their captive with penetrating black eyes.

“How did you….?” He stopped himself short. “Never mind, this is not the place to find out. Come we will go now.”

“What about him?” Bodie asked looking at the wallet over the Spaniard's shoulder. Raymond Doyle. CI5. Bodie felt a tantalising tickle along his memory. But that’s all it remained, elusively out of reach. What the hell was CI5?

Carlos handed him the second photograph. “He was not only looking for Connolly. It seems he also wants you. He will come with us and he will tell us how CI5 came to know of us.”

Bodie looked down at the photo of himself, then up at the CI5 agent. The man was staring intently at him, and although he hadn’t yet spoken beyond that brief hiss, Bodie had the distinct feeling he was trying to tell him something.

The Spaniard prodded the man with the gun. “Move my young friend.”

Doyle had little choice and he was seething. Why in God’s name had Bodie told them he was armed? And why strip him of all his equipment, thus effectively rendering him useless. He looked to his partner, utterly bewildered. What the hell was going on? Something shady, that was blatantly obvious and Bodie had somehow found out about it, keeping it secretly to himself, going so far as to leave hospital to deal with it on his own. Doyle was strangely hurt by his exclusion. They were partners weren’t they? Why on earth would Bodie adopt this role so convincingly that Doyle, for one alarming minute, had been sure Bodie would stab him in the side to keep his cover intact. 

Unless it was personal. The answer was suddenly glaringly obvious and he was no happier with the revelation. Personal. And now, thanks to the recent heated words, it made sense. These men were from Bodie’s murky past. The past that Doyle knew nothing about. Doyle very nearly groaned. Bodie on a personal vendetta would break every rule in the book to get his revenge, Doyle knew that well enough. And in true Bodie form, it was likely that he wanted to keep Doyle safely out of it. But if that were the case, why did he give him away? Not many men could sneak up on him, only another professional could get anywhere close and Bodie was a professional. The relief Doyle had felt as his partner had come up behind him was short lived, the blade pricking his side hurt far less than the fact that Bodie had deliberately stabbed him. But why? The answers were not forthcoming, certainly not from Bodie himself.

He’d been trying to catch his partner’s eye, waiting for that quicksilver understanding they had perfected over the years, waiting for a clue on how to behave, but Bodie had only given him a cursory glance and then ignored him. It was so unlike him, even if he were acting a part, he would certainly have given Doyle a specific look, something, to let him know he was in control. But Bodie, if anything, was coldly indifferent to him and Doyle was uncomfortably reminded of the partner he’d been reluctantly teamed with when first joining CI5. 

That Bodie had closed down all emotions, been cold and indifferent as well, and Doyle’s sixth sense for trouble flared, itching between his shoulder blades. 

The Spaniard prodded him harder and Doyle obediently moved forward. Whatever game Bodie was playing, it was a dangerous one and if he didn’t give him some sort of hint then Doyle wouldn’t know what he was planning; wouldn’t be able to help. As it was he had no choice but to obey the Spaniard with the gun and he wasn’t happy. He tensed himself, ready to break free at the first opportunity but the Spaniard leaned forward. “I would not try it, _mi amigo._ I am very strong and can easily carry you and you would not like the headache when you wake.”

Doyle gritted his teeth and hissed in frustrated defeat. He saw Bodie cast him a curious look before they moved down the street, the big man staying close to Doyle, the muzzle of the gun in his side, one hand on his arm.

 

**********

**Chapter 4.**

 

The walk was quite far down a maze of winding, twisting streets closer to the Thames and Bodie could smell it, that smell of sour mud, stagnant water, a faint smell of sewage, of rubbish piled knee high against the stone wall on the banks and even fainter the subtle brine of the sea. It was the smell of docks and rivers worldwide and Bodie had a sudden image of a body, a woman’s body, lying in the cold mud on the banks and felt sorrow and fury associated with that image. But not from him, he realised. From someone else, someone whose hurt was almost palpable. 

He shook his head at these elusive images, a mistake immediately as his brains clanged against the inside of his skull and he rubbed at the back of his head again. He glanced over to the cop, Doyle, knowing he was angry, could see it in his open face, in those wide expressive eyes, staring at him, blue fury sparking in their depths. For a minute Bodie thought it was familiar. That flash of temper, simmering behind easy to read eyes. 

This cop had to be good, Bodie thought with grudging admiration. Nabbing him once was rare enough, although, modestly, he knew that whatever had whacked him on the head had helped enormously with his initial capture, but to track him down a second time and to nearly succeed again. Well, Bodie could admire skill in the enemy all right. And the man was curiously deceptive. He was slim, almost underweight, his open face and mass of dark curls making him seem quite young, although Bodie hazarded a guess they were much the same age.

But Bodie was experienced enough to look behind the physical, saw the intelligence in those wide greenish blue eyes, saw the coiled tension in that slim, wiry body, the hard look directed his way whenever he glanced over, as if the man was trying to work him out. Not one to be underestimated at any cost and even the Spaniard was smart enough to treat him with the same respect, not removing his attention from him for a minute.

The Spaniard led them to an old warehouse, a remnant from an era when tall ships rested on the Thames, their hulls full of Australian wool and wheat, and spices from the Indian trading companies. It wasn’t quite derelict. A chain wire fence surrounded the front and a padlocked gate prevented entry. Graffiti was kept to a minimum and the building itself looked remarkably well preserved. A large sign proclaimed future development, smart apartments and a warning that the property was security patrolled. The Spaniard dug in his pocket, pulled out a key and tossed it to Bodie.

“Open it up.”

Bodie obliged and waited while Carlos prodded the CI5 man through before relocking it again. Bodie nodded at the sign. “Security patrolled?”

The Spaniard kept his attention on his prisoner. “Yes, but there are ways to get around security. You already know this.”

The interior was vast, a wooden floor, smooth and polished from years of oily wool, now dusty and grey, brick pillars at regular intervals throughout. The smell of lanolin lingered, droppings from rodents littered the corners, and that reek of the Thames came in strongly through the doors.

“Up the stairs,” the Spaniard directed and they all moved to the staircase. He made sure Doyle went first, holding the loaded gun to the back of the agent’s head. Doyle climbed the stairs; still reluctant to try anything until he knew what Bodie was planning.

The next level looked much the same as the first and Bodie could easily imagine the bales of fleece, laid out ready for shipping to the mills. The floor here had that same grey smoothness as though polished from years of lanolin rich fleece. Definitely a wool store then and in good condition. There was a doorway opposite the stairs and the Spaniard directed them to it. Doyle led the way in prodded helpfully by the gun and then stopped, staying light on his feet, waiting edgily. 

It was impossible to know what the room had been used for but the high windows would let in daylight, the same brick pillars held up the ceiling and the same polished floorboards were underfoot. There was a desk and chairs, an old sagging settee, a rusty sink leaning lopsidedly. A bench against the wall held a small gas stove top, a kettle, the makings of tea and coffee. Kerosene lamps were already lit giving the room a soft golden glow. A doorway to the right showed some bedrolls. But a large table under the window held items that caused both Bodie and Doyle to stare, if for different reasons. It was covered with equipment. Wires, ropes, tools, chains, fuses, timers, guns, ammunition, a small armoury by Bodie’s standard, but Doyle’s eyes were solely on the fuses and plastic explosive.

He spoke for the first time and his street-smart voice sneered, jolting at Bodie’s impaired memory. “A bomb? You’re making a bomb? You must be out of your mind.”

The Spaniard took his arm and jerked him roughly to the nearest brick pillar, forced him to his knees, down on to the floor. “Connolly get that rope.”’

Doyle looked up mutinously but the Spaniard kept the barrel of the gun pushed against the side of his head.

Connolly walked across to the supply table and picked up the length of rope. His hands shook the minute he pulled them from his pockets but suddenly Bodie was there, taking the rope from him. He returned to Carlos and Connolly stood and stared at his hands, at the long thin fingers and watched them spasm with loathing.

If Doyle had vaguely thought there was something not quite right with Bodie before, he was suitably convinced now. Bodie set about in a businesslike manner, tying his arms around the brick post professionally tight, and Doyle feeling the rough brick press into his back, his arms stretched to immobility found himself hard pressed to not lash out at his unresponsive partner. 

When Bodie straightened up and turned away without even looking at him, Doyle knew something was seriously wrong. It didn’t matter Bodie’s reasons for this insane course of action, the fact remained that he would have at least given him a wink of reassurance, a small nod or a smile while he was so close. Doyle had expected it, had waited for it, only to be bitterly disappointed. It was almost like his partner had been replaced by the original Bodie, a Bodie he hadn’t seen for years. 

The Spaniard did not put the weapon down until he had inspected the bindings himself, and finally satisfied, shoved the gun into his pocket and moved away to equipment table. Doyle cautiously tested the ropes around his wrists, but Bodie had done nothing to ensure he could work himself free and Doyle could quite happily, at that point, strangle his partner. He settled for keeping his eyes and ears open, glowering at Bodie whenever he got the chance, but the Spaniard hadn’t finished with him yet. He took a chair from the table and brought it back, settling it squarely in front of his captive. He swung his leg over and straddled it, leaning over the back to stare at Doyle with his black fathomless eyes.

“Now, Mr Doyle. You and I will chat, yes?”

Bodie had wandered over to the table, keeping half an ear on the Spaniard. He had learned his lesson long ago with Carlos and wouldn’t turn his back on him again. He felt a bit sorry for the CI5 man, but it was his job, and you took the good with the bad in any job. Bodie’s stomach rumbled and he wondered when he had last eaten, but the Spaniard’s next question had him turning back.

“How did you know about us?”

Bodie moved closer, curious about this as well. Doyle threw him an absolutely incensed look and once more Bodie felt that jab of familiarity. 

He again had a sudden impression of restraining someone, a wriggling, fighting, squirming bundle of pure fury, intent on mayhem. He stared at Doyle, sensing something dangerous about the man, and spoke without thinking. “Be careful.”

The Spaniard looked back at him questioningly and Bodie shrugged lamely, not knowing why he said it. But only that they should. They should be careful around this man.

Carlos turned back, dismissing Bodie. Connolly was at the bench making a pot of tea and Bodie went to join him, rubbing at his head, wondering if there was any more aspirin. He was immensely tired, wanting to sleep and knowing it was an unwise course of action while the Spaniard was here. Carlos may be accepting his presence, but it didn’t mean he trusted him and Bodie knew that he hadn’t put aside their quarrel from years ago. No, he was biding his time, using Bodie until he no longer needed him.

“You haven’t answered my question, Mr Doyle.”

His captive grimaced trying to stretch his back as the brickwork jabbed cruelly into his shoulder blades.

Doyle wasn’t happy, not by a long shot. Now this mad bastard wanted answers. How could he answer without giving Bodie away and blast Bodie anyway. He was absolutely no help at all, over making a bloody cup of tea rather than getting this maniac off his back.

“We didn’t,” he finally said, and felt Bodie turn to him again, frowning in puzzlement. Doyle tried to damp down another burst of anger. “We only wanted him,” and he indicated Bodie with a nod of his head. “For armed robbery.”

“That is outside CI5’s area,” the Spaniard said staring at him intently.

“Nothing is outside our area,” Doyle snarled back and Bodie’s head snapped up again, hearing it echo in his head, as though he’d heard it many times before. Nothing is outside our area.

“I do not believe you,” the Spaniard said and stood up. 

The kick when it came was hard and connected with Doyle’s ribs with a dirty sounding crunch. Doyle’s breath came out in a whoosh and he brought his legs up in a belated attempt to protect himself. Carlos removed a knife from his back pocket and bent down, grabbing hold of Doyle’s chin and moving the knife up to his eyes. “You were asking also about Connolly. Now if you do not see my point, Mr Doyle, you will not see anything ever again.”

Enough was enough and Doyle, the pain still stabbing his ribs, slid his eyes sideways to his partner. Bodie was standing, watching him, eyes glittering, intense and Doyle’s fury punched through his pain, his voice coming in hesitant gasps as he struggled to breathe normally.

“Ask him…. Ask him why I’m here. If you don’t believe me.”

Carlos switched his gaze to Bodie, but Bodie was still staring at the CI5 agent. For one irrational moment, when the Spaniard had kicked him, Bodie had felt a wild urge to wade in and protect him and even now his hands were curled into fists at his side, as though ready to start swinging. He shook his head baffled. Was he going mad? Protect a copper?

“What do you say then, Bodie,” Carlos enquired softly. “Why does this man think you can answer these questions?”

Bodie jerked his eyes from the prisoner and back to Carlos. There was a strange ringing in his ears, but he forced his fists to uncurl, and shrugged. “No idea.” And he didn’t at all.

A noise on the stairs interrupted them and two men appeared, carrying boxes of takeaway Chinese food. The smell wafted through the room making Bodie’s mouth water. The same couldn’t be said for Doyle who felt faintly sick by the pain cascading across his chest. He let his head fall back against the bricks and took slow steadying breaths as the Spaniard let him go to turn his attention turned to the new arrivals.

 

***********

 

Garcia and Turnbull were both older than Bodie and both had a tough no nonsense look about them. Garcia was Spanish, dark skinned, black haired, dark eyed, but Turnbull was a revelation. English, with pink cheeks and fair hair, he wore a security guard’s uniform and the reason they had undisturbed access to this site was suddenly made clear. They gazed at him curiously as they laid out the food and Bodie vaguely wondered what else Turnbull was required to stand guard over and whether it had anything to do with the Spaniard’s little job. 

Garcia spoke some soft Spanish to Carlos and both men turned to look at Doyle, who had his head back against the rough bricks, eyes closed. Carlos answered him curtly, the words CI5 the only thing Bodie understood. Again that ripple, but his mind remained blank, his head pounding and his eyes heavy. Everyone seemed to know who CI5 were, everyone but him. 

Turnbull certainly knew all right, and his face flushed disbelievingly. “Are you mad?” he hissed at the Spaniard. “You’ve never gone and kidnapped a CI5 agent? Christ, they’ll be on to us like a ton of bricks.”

“They do not know we have him,” the Spaniard answered coolly. “Or his people would already be here. Relax, mi amigo, I have plans for him.”

“You shouldn’t have brought him here. Now he has seen us. Seen this,” Turnbull gestured to the table of equipment, still angry, still flushed.

The Spaniard stood up and his eyes narrowed, the cruelty he was capable of evident in their dark depths. “There was no choice. His curiosity led him to Connolly. The risk had to be taken.”

Turnbull paced to the doorway, flipping a cigarette from a crumpled packet to his mouth. The Spaniard sat back down, face set and angry.

Bodie glanced at Connolly who was looking unhappily at the food. Connolly seemed nervous, his fear almost visible and Bodie wondered why. All he had to do was build a couple of bombs, and he’d been doing that all his life. Feeling Bodie’s gaze on him, Connolly looked up and flushed. He turned to the Spaniard. “I want to go back to my flat.”

“You cannot.” The Spaniard poked about in the containers unenthusiastically. “This CI5 man was looking for you, it will be too dangerous. You must stay here with Bodie. You will begin work so that the bombs are ready by the time we need them.”

“I didn’t say I was staying here,” Bodie objected in a hard voice, not trusting Carlos as far as he could throw him.

“Then you will go back to your home, where his friends will find you?” Carlos asked, indicating Doyle with his fork.

Bodie glared at the CI5 man. Doyle, as though feeling that dark blue gaze on him, slowly opened his expressive eyes and stared right back. Steadily, intently, fearless and hard. Oh and angry, the man’s anger hadn’t abated one iota. And that anger seemed to be directed solely upon him. Bodie couldn’t for the life of him think why. Unless it was because he had caught him, and the agent held him responsible for his current predicament. But somehow Bodie didn’t think that was it.

“There is bedding, you and Connolly will stay here. You will guard this agent and Connolly will build the bombs. We do not have much time left.”

“Where are you going?” Bodie demanded.

The Spaniard looked up. “I will come and go, I have much to do, procedures to put in place. I am not wanted by the police as you apparently are.” He glanced at Doyle as well. “See what you can get out of him. He will make a hostage for us, should we need one.”

They sat at the table to eat. No one offered any to the prisoner on the floor. In fact all attention seemed to have shifted from him completely. Except for Bodie, who couldn’t quite shake off the awareness he had for the bound man. He picked up a plastic fork and helped himself to noodles. 

Doyle sniffed, cautiously stretched out his legs, away from the pain in his chest. He inhaled, stronger, testing. A tightness across his ribcage but he didn’t think any were broken. Instead he pushed himself into the post, trying to bend his wrists to reach the knots, but the rope was too tight, the pillar too wide and his wrists, held snug with a foot or two of cord between them were starting to rub raw on the rough brickwork. Doyle swivelled his hands, ran his fingers down the jagged pieces of baked clay. Rough enough to shred skin. Maybe rough enough to shred rope. He watched the Spaniard warily, no longer able to rely on Bodie. He couldn’t afford broken ribs, and it was obvious that whatever his partner was doing, he was flying solo, regardless of what happened. Doyle bit his lip as he began to slide the rope against the rough bricks. His anger with his partner was smudged ever so faintly by concern. Bodie had taken a fair whack to the noggin and the dark circles under his heavy eyes told him it was taking a toll on him. He watched as Bodie rubbed the back of his head again, wincing.

There was little conversation at the table. The Spaniard and Garcia spoke occasionally together in Spanish, Bodie concentrated on eating, Connolly barely touched his at all. The Spaniard forked noodles into his mouth and eyed his new arms man in disgruntled annoyance.

“So what have you been doing since you left Africa, Bodie?”

Bodie looked up from his plate and his dark blue eyes fixed on the Spaniard coolly. “Bit of this, bit of that.”

“I have not heard of you in all this time. You have not been doing this work, no?”

Doyle lifted his head and stared at his partner. Bodie’s deadpan face flickered for a minute, and Doyle who knew him so well could have sworn he looked…. almost lost. It was an expression he had never ever seen on Bodie’s face before and Doyle’s concern and unease deepened with that fleeting glimpse of vulnerability. 

“I’ve been around.”

“I do not trust you. I do not like you,” the Spaniard stated bluntly, and reaching across the table, took a beer from the carton, pulling the ring tag with a satisfying hiss. He flicked it onto the floor and leaned back in his chair. “I want to know why this CI5 man is after you. I want to know how much I should worry. I want to know if I should just kill you now and be done with it.”

Bodie reluctantly glanced across at Doyle. The agent’s face was shadowed, but those eyes, gleaming in the faint light, were on him, intent and narrowed, as though he knew him, and Bodie quickly looked away. The man still unsettled him, his angry disapproval making him feel slightly guilty and Bodie didn’t like it.

“I’ve been out of touch,” Bodie said finally. “All I want is some money to get out of the country. Then you’ll never see me again. What’s the job?”

The Spaniard took a mouthful of beer and black eyes bored into Bodie's dark blue ones. “I will tell you, when you need to know. In the meantime you will stay here, away from this man’s people who want you so badly.”

Bodie returned the look of dislike, belatedly wondering if he would have been better to find another way out of the country. But he knew the Spaniard well, Carlos would have an escape plan mapped out well in advance, one that didn’t need a passport. He always did. Every little detail taken care of. Bodie began to feel that this might work after all, particularly since there was no sign of Felipe or Lola. If Carlos was working independently of his brother, they might just finish the job without killing each other.

The Spaniard finished his meal and stood up. “We will return later. Connolly, you know what I need, you must start immediately.”

Turnbull and Garcia stood up as well. 

“Any chance of a toothbrush?’ Bodie asked smoothly, his face unreadable.

The Spaniard didn’t bother answering. It was quiet when they left, and Bodie felt the tension drain out of him.

Connolly began to clear the dishes and Bodie watched him idly, fighting sleep. Watched how his hands shook, spilling the remains of the food over the table, shook even more as they ineffectively tried to mop it up. Bodie’s dark blue gaze shot up to the bomb maker, realising, knowing, and panicked, Connolly quickly turned away.

Bodie said quietly, “You’ve lost your nerve, Connolly.”

Frank Connolly stood at the bench and gripped it hard, shoulders slumped in defeat. Finally he nodded and turned haunted eyes back to the younger man at the table. “Job went bad, bad as it could ever get and it did me. Can’t go back to Africa, Bodie, I’m finished there.”

Bodie looked at him, but any sympathy he may have felt was hidden, carefully concealed. “Does he know?”

Connolly shook his head miserably. “No, I’ve hidden it from him.”

“Dangerous working a bomb with shaky mitts like that, mate.”

Connolly’s tired face registered alarm. “You won’t tell him?”

Bodie paused momentarily, and heard a slight shuffle behind him. He didn’t turn, didn’t want to see those wide, angry eyes fixed on him. “Nah, I won’t tell him. But you can tell me something?”

Conolly gave him a puzzled look. “And what might that be?”

Bodie jerked his head backwards. “What the hell is CI5?”

Connolly blinked in surprise, but not half as surprised as Ray Doyle, who stopped sawing on his ropes, thinking he’d misheard. 

“You can’t not know of them, Bodie.” Connolly took the plastic containers and dumped them on the draining board. “Where’ve you been?”

“Out of the country, what do you think?” Bodie snapped, already regretting asking.

Connolly reached for cups and lifted the lid of the kettle, checking the contents. “CI5, the A Squad. Top Brass. They don’t have rules, mate. Not like normal coppers. A law unto themselves. Bloody dangerous too. You can’t rely on them to play fair because they don’t.”

Bodie cast a puzzled look over his shoulder to the operative tied to the brick column. “What about him? No fight at all when I grabbed him.” But even as he thought it, he remembered sensing the danger of the man, could sense it even now and what was even more puzzling, he sensed that it was being kept tightly leashed, held back, as though waiting for something.

Connolly clumsily lit the small stove and placed the kettle back on for a fresh cup of tea. “Then there was a reason for it.” He turned to look at the younger man carefully. “He must want you pretty bad Bodie, to take the risk he has, to not fight when he had the chance and he would have done, believe me. Don’t underestimate him, he’ll surprise you when you least expect it.” He shook his head mournfully. “Bloody dangerous that mob. I don’t envy you, son, whatever he wants you for, rather you than me.”

Bodie turned fully and gazed intently at Doyle. In the dim light, he couldn’t make out much, just those eyes, which appeared enormous as his face flicked in the shadows from the lamps. One long denim encased leg was bent, drawn up to his chin, the other tucked under, tailor fashion, as though about to rise, and Bodie saw him shift restlessly, testing the ropes.

“He was asking for you as well,” he reminded Connolly.

“Yeah, but it’s you he wants. What were you doing at the pub when the car hit you?”

“Car?” Bodie spoke before thinking, his attention still on the prisoner on the floor. “What car?”

“The car that nearly run you down today.”

Bodie looked surprised, his aching head making him incautious. “Today?”

“You don’t remember?” Connolly stared at him bewildered. “You don’t remember getting hit by the car when this bloke were after you this afternoon?”

Bodie didn’t answer. His hand reached up and massaged his head. He couldn’t think any more, his head was aching and his eyes were leaden.

“Better get some kip, mate,” Connolly said, pouring himself a cup of tea. “It was a fair whack and you look done in. Things will probably be clearer in the morning.”

Doyle watched as Bodie got up without further prompting, stumbled into the second doorway and lay down carefully on the nearest bedroll. He was asleep in seconds and Doyle’s confusion spread, turning to alarm. Bodie never slept that heavily. Courtesy of his life in the jungle, he could wake to full alertness within seconds. He could see his partner’s face, drawn and white, his breathing slow and even. That knock on the head. Why hadn’t it occurred to him? All this time wondering what his partner was up to, what he’d stumbled into, when it was now as clear as a bell.

His memory! The car thumping his head. It couldn’t be true, he thought dazedly. Could it? He couldn’t have lost his memory. He jerked at his wrists, ever present temper close to the surface.

Amnesia. Well, partial amnesia anyway, as he seemed to recall his mercenary years easily enough. Partial enough to clearly wipe CI5’s existence from his memory, including his partner, now effectively a captive without back up, virtually on his own.

Doyle did groan then. Bloody hell, it had to be true. Why couldn’t he have cottoned on before Bodie had disarmed him? Now they were in a right mess. Not to mention a couple of bombs thrown into the equation. He tested the ropes but they were still strong. His arms were aching already from the sawing motion and he had no idea if it was working. He tried to shift, to look behind him, but the squat column was too wide and Bodie had done too good a job. He glared again at his partner, dead to the world on top of the sleeping bag and concern warred once more with his fury.

“He doesn’t look well.”

Connolly’s head jerked up startled, as though he’d forgotten Doyle’s very existence. Doyle gamely tried again. “He doesn’t look well, he needs a doctor.”

“A hospital will get him nicked again,” Connolly said absently. “Bodie has no love of coppers.”

Doyle remembered this all too well. The fact that he had been partnered with an ex copper on joining CI5 had rankled with Bodie for some time.

Connolly took his cup over to the supply table and began to sort through the items provided.

Doyle wondered whether Connolly had any sort of principles. He looked old and weary and unsuited to the task given him. It wouldn’t hurt to try and talk to him. “Why are you doing this?”

Connolly didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Money’s good.”

“He’s going to set bombs off in England,” Doyle said vehemently. “People will be killed. Innocent people, children.”

“And why is that different to African people, African children?” Connolly asked tiredly. He pulled a length of fuse from the pile and laid it aside.

“You can’t do it. Whatever he’s doing, doesn’t justify this.”

Connolly looked up briefly. “I would be more worried about what’s going to happen to you, boy.”

 

*************

**Chapter 5**

_Desperation clawed at him. Legs pumping, lungs straining, he ran full belt, but his goal just seemed to get further and further away. Breath harsh to his ears, he leapt up the fire escape, three steps at a time. They stretched higher and higher and the urgency to get to the top screamed at him persistently as Bodie panted, calf muscles cramping, chest heaving. Fear drove him on. His heart was in his mouth and he was scared. Scared at what he’d find, terrified he’d be too late. Please don’t let him…._

Bodie woke with a start, disorientated and fuzzy, remnants of the vividly terrifying dream still clogging his senses. God that fear! Fair immobilising it was. Who was he scared for? Who was it at the top of the stairs? What had him running as though his life depended on it? Elusive shapes flittered through his conscious thoughts, but the stairs were clear and real. He remembered them, remembered flying up them, cool, calm, but terrified on the inside. But who was at the top remained a mystery. He gazed around blankly. For a minute he didn’t know where he was, but then recognised Connolly’s huddled form on the other pallet. The older man was still asleep; snoring lightly, face drawn and haggard-looking in the dim light from the doorway. Bodie rose quietly to his feet, disconcerted by how heavily he had slept, and his head protested again. Damn. He raised a hand and felt the lump, still there, still hurting and still keeping his memory in never-never land. 

He moved to the main room, cheery with the morning sun pouring in through the high windows. He glanced around, noticing immediately the work Connolly had begun the night before. Detonators, fuses and timers all laid out neatly. Why the Spaniard needed half the other stuff on the table was anyone’s guess. Chains and padlocks, rope, folded felt blankets. It was almost like he was going to freight something large and heavy. Despite his headache, his stomach rumbled, admonishing him for his neglect. Bodie didn’t hold much hope of eating any time soon. The previous night’s empty food containers lay piled up near the sink and Bodie grimaced, stretching and rubbing the back of his head worriedly.

A faint movement in his peripheral vision had him turning sharply to see the CI5 man, head drooping against his chest, still restrained. He couldn’t have had an easy night, Bodie thought in some sympathy, not in that position. He would have been cold too, the room was quite chilly and he had been offered nothing in the way of nourishment or warmth. Bodie filled the kettle and busied himself with tea bags. The water bubbling must have penetrated because Doyle groggily began to stir and Bodie again felt that odd sensation to help him, to free him. He pondered the urge while he thoughtfully poured two cups of tea, adding milk and sugar, trying in vain to find the memory to rationalise this unwanted inclination.

Doyle blinked, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes as he came across with a hot cup in his hand. His face was tired and dark with morning shadow but he woke up alertly enough as Bodie squatted down to him.

He glanced at the cup and said caustically, “Finally decided to see if I’m alright then?”

Whatever Bodie had expected him to say, it wasn’t this, although he was unsurprised to note the anger still rippling through that tense body.

“Drink,” he ordered, holding the cup up. “It’s a cold morning.’

Doyle snorted irritably. “You can’t have really lost your memory.”

A sudden surge of alarm gripped Bodie. He knew? How did he know?

“It’s me, Bodie. Doyle! What the hell are you doing? You aren’t part of this lot, you great fool.”

“Save your breath,” Bodie hissed. “Your type would say anything.”

The greenish blue eyes stared at him searchingly then widened in disbelief, “Christ, it’s true. You really don’t remember do you?”

“Remember what?” Bodie spoke scathingly, dismissively.

“Bodie, you’re one of us, you’re CI5.”

Bodie held himself rigid, the tea almost forgotten as he looked into that intense gaze.

“You have to stop this. Whatever it is they’re doing, we have to stop it. It’s what we do. It’s your job.”

“You’re mad.” Bodie finally found his voice. “Me a copper… you’re…” he shook his head and lifted the cup again. “Mental.”

“For Christ’s sake, Bodie, it’s true, you have to remember. We have to stop them, they’re going to set bombs.”

Noise from behind them had both men snapping their heads up. Connolly came shuffling, yawning to the doorway.

Bodie turned back and pressed the edge of the cup to Doyle’s lips and tilted, effectively silencing him. 

Doyle had little choice but to drink, it was either that or wear it, but nevertheless he was grateful for the warm beverage, his arms were numb and his legs were freezing. He watched his partner’s face as he gulped the liquid, Bodie solicitously adjusting the angle so he could swallow. Had he got through to him? 

Bodie looked remote, unreadable, his face closed of all emotion, but Doyle knew him better now than he had when they’d first been partnered - the last time Bodie had been like this. He saw the doubt, however shakily he had planted it, take root. Now he just had to get it to grow. Get him to remember. And believe.

“Going soft, Bodie?” Connolly queried, taking a cup to pour tea for himself.

Doyle lifted his head and Bodie removed the cup from his mouth, checking the contents. “No point killing him slowly, is there?”

He stood up and moved away and Doyle licking the liquid from his lips, let his head fall back. Bodie returned to the table and Doyle knew he’d lost him again. Disregarding his protesting muscles, he diligently went back to work on the ropes wondering what Cowley was going to do when neither of his ace operatives turned up for work.

 

**********

 

George Cowley checked his watch and stabbed at the intercom again. “Any word yet from 4.5 or 3.7?”

“No sir,” the dispatcher came back apologetically. “Both phones ring out and 4.5 isn’t answering his RT. Do you want me to keep trying?

Cowley paused, the uneasiness growing with each passing hour. “Aye and get an APB on 4.5’s car.”

He sat back in his chair thoughtfully. It was unlike Doyle to stay out of contact. He wouldn’t put anything past Bodie, but Doyle’s police background remained strong in him. Unless of course he was feeling bolshie enough to deliberately disobey orders and turn off his communication device, and he’d done that once or twice, or fifty times before now. Cowley knew his operatives well; he knew what would trigger Doyle’s rebellious streak and he was fairly certain that whatever was detaining the lad it wasn’t through any sort of insubordination. Not this time anyway. And if it were, he’d be on desk duties for a month.

He looked out of the window at the bright sunshine; unusual for this time of year but still not enough to lift the gloom that suddenly assailed him. That Bodie was neither in hospital, where he damn well should be, nor at home was niggling at him as well. It didn’t take much for Cowley to consider them connected, Doyle’s phone call last night had revealed his worry over his partner’s absence and he’d obviously gone looking for him. What had his damned curiosity got him into now? He swung back to the phone and stabbed at the intercom. “Get me 6.2.”

Murphy arrived, tall, good looking and easygoing. 

Cowley looked up at him. “Doyle and Bodie are both missing. Anything that you know?”

Murphy looked genuinely surprised. “No sir, well, I thought Bodie would still be in hospital.”

“He walked out last night,” Cowley said irritably. “And didn’t return home. And now Doyle isn’t answering. I’ve put out an APB on Doyle’s car but we’d better check his flat.”

Murphy whistled softly and followed his boss, shaking his head. Whatever those two were up to, he hoped it was worth it. Cowley would tear strips off them for this.

 

***********

 

Connolly worked on the bombs for most of the morning while Bodie sat at the table in a somnolent state, occasionally lifting a hand to rub the back of his head. Doyle was aching, cramped and bored almost out of his skull. He provoked both men, angry and frustrated with their stubborn determination to carry on with the job despite his pleas. His barbs fell on deaf ears when it came to his partner but Connolly, hands shaking so much that he could no longer work, flung down the fuse, got up and without another word, stormed out of the room and down the stairs.

Bodie raised an eyebrow to the restrained man and sighing went to put the kettle on. “You’d drive a saint to murder, you would.”

Doyle snorted and began sawing on the ropes again. Occasionally the length of rope between his wrists would catch in the crumbling brickwork, lodging so tightly that Doyle was hard pressed to remove it. He had no idea if this was working but he had to do something. His arms were deadened from the strain of being held backwards and the ache between his shoulder blades was like an icy burn. “You’ll drive me to murder. I can’t believe you’re doing this, Bodie. You should be stopping it.”

Bodie ignored him and Doyle desperately wanted to thump him. “You’re not even trying to remember.”

Bodie slammed teacups onto the bench. “How much of an idiot do you think I am? No one goes from mercenary to CI5 just like that.”

Doyle blinked in surprise. Christ, his partner had lost more than a couple of years by the look of it. “You didn’t. You were in the army, the SAS before CI5.”

Bodie paused in the process of selecting tea bags. “Me? In the army?” But he frowned, remembering a childhood dream of enlisting, only it hadn’t worked out that way, he hadn’t been old enough at the time he’d left home so he’d joined the Merchant Navy instead. Ending up in Africa.

“Yeah and Cowley seconded you from there. You have to remember Cowley. Scots? Bloody minded, triple-think Cowley?” No reaction and Doyle exhaled in vast irritation and disbelief. “Bloody hell, didn’t think anyone could forget the Cow.”

“Scottish?”

Doyle swung his eyes back at the question. “Yes. Why, do you remember?”

That voice. The one that had reached out to him in the alley when he’d wanted to kill the Spaniard. Bodie, aware of Doyle’s intense gaze shook his head. A thought struck him. “Why did you let me capture you last night?”

Doyle, momentarily taken aback by the abrupt change of topic, answered honestly. “Thought you had some sort of plan. Didn’t want to muck it up. Thought you were undercover.”

“If you thought that, why did you risk blowing it in the first place?”

Doyle stared at him in amazement. “Because you’re my partner. It’s my job to back you up. You’d disappeared from hospital, with a lump the size of a golf ball on your noggin, what did you think I would do?”

The tea sat on the bench forgotten. Partner? Bodie was so stunned by this startling news, that he dropped his carefully controlled expression, looking much more like himself. Doyle couldn’t help himself, he flashed him a grin and Bodie jolted at the familiarity of it. 

“What?” asked Doyle, seeing him flinch, but Bodie didn’t answer. How could he? How could he explain what he’d felt when Doyle flashed that wide white smile at him like that? Like it was something he’d seen countless times before, had even exerted himself on occasion to provoke it, just to take pleasure in the sheer cheekiness of it. How could that be familiar, but not the man sporting it? 

He poured hot water instead and his stomach rolled emptily. Doyle was shifting subtly and looked for all the world like he was going to start in on him again. Bodie took a cup of tea over and squatted down. “Save the lecture and drink.”

Doyle did, thirstily. Bodie held the cup to his lips as before, tilting it back, allowing Doyle to swallow. The man looked tired. Bodie gazed at him critically, trying to find something, anything, in his blank memory vaults of who he was, but the only image he could conjure up, was the one of him running full tilt and armed towards him while Connolly had been spouting his pessimistic warnings.

“Keep this up and I’ll need a loo,” Doyle warned, taking another sip of the hot liquid.

“Do you need to go now then?”

Doyle looked at him seriously, weighing up the odds of getting away if he was loosened. Bodie gazed back calmly, impenetrable, but Doyle, used to reading him, saw a smidgen of confusion. He really didn’t remember. Which now made him unpredictable. He considered his chances of overpowering his teammate, they were fairly evenly matched in skill despite Bodie’s greater weight, and then was honest enough to admit that he wouldn’t be sure that Bodie wouldn’t shoot him, or get shot himself in the resultant scuffle. He hesitated, but before he could make a decision voices came from the stairwell. 

Bodie jerked around abruptly, jungle reflexes kicking in. Retreating swiftly back to the table, he grabbed Doyle’s handgun and cocked it. Silently he positioned himself, eyes quickly scanning the room, now illuminated in daylight from the high windows, before locking on to the shut door. Doyle, tied to his column, also shifted his eyes to the doorway, head tilted warily. 

The voice floated up again from the stairs, louder now, and Bodie paled, recognising it as easily as he had recognised the Spaniard's in the alley last night. Eyes hardening, lip curling into a snarl he brought the gun up, just as the door burst open. 

He was easily as big as his brother, wide in the shoulders, powerful arms and legs clad in black leather. He bore enough resemblance to name him as a Carlos, but Felipe’s face differed from his brother's quite noticeably, in the shape of a disfiguring scar, old and white, crossing from just under his left eye down to the crease of his mouth.

Bodie’s sneer remained, yet at the sight of the scar, fiendish satisfaction surged through him, quelling for a slight instant, the almost overpowering urge to pull the trigger. Use the anger laddie, don’t let it control you. Again that quiet Scots voice and again it had the desired effect. Bodie’s finger relaxed on the trigger and he let out a small breath, the hatred and fury was still there, but not blinding him with snarling red tipped claws and he could think again. Rationalise.

He should have expected Felipe to be part of this job, was foolish to think otherwise. The ruthless Spaniard had a soft spot for his brother that he had for no other living creature. With the possible exception of Lola and Bodie half expected her to come waltzing in behind Felipe, hips swaying in that way she had, guaranteed to have every red blooded man in the immediate vicinity discreetly adjusting themselves. 

Yeah, Felipe could do no wrong in the Spaniard’s eyes. Bodie didn’t particularly share the sentiment, in his opinion Felipe should have been drowned at birth. Things were going to get nasty now and Felipe immediately proved him right. Shocked into stillness, he stared at Bodie, at the gun.

“ _Diablo_. What are you doing here?”

Bodie smirked; glad to see the giant man so discomposed. “Reliving old times.”

Felipe started forward but Bodie brought the gun up, the smirk dying a quick death, voice soft but all the more frightening for it. “I’ve always wanted to, you can make it easy.”

“ _Mi hermano_ would never have you here.”

“Oh I don’t know. People change. Sometimes even for the better. Or maybe he’s just tired of your little games.”

More noise on the stairs and the Spaniard himself appeared carrying an open top cardboard box. Felipe turned to him with a torrent of angry Spanish. Carlos looked at Bodie holding the gun, noticed the tension in Bodie’s powerful frame, the hard light in his eyes, and knew immediately that Bodie was balancing on the edge and that his finger, whitening on the trigger, was a fraction away from firing the weapon. He positioned himself in front of his brother and gave a curt order but Felipe still argued.

“Enough,” Carlos snarled in English. “Do as I say.” He dumped the box on the bench and dusted off his hands, including Bodie in his order, still shielding his brother until he was certain that Bodie wasn’t going to start firing.

Felipe subsided glaring at Bodie. Bodie stared back lazily, keeping the gun in his hand, his temper in check. Felipe leaned back against the bench and folded his arms, his easy stance not disguising the anger, which laced his next words. “You look much the same, _mi amigo_.”

“You haven’t changed much either,” Bodie said dryly and the insult was clearly delivered and received.

“Cease this!” the Spaniard ordered, but both men were only grudgingly accepting the others presence. He crossed to the supply table, scanning it, seeing evidence that Connolly had started work. “You will work together for this job, and you will keep your distance from each other. Bodie, you will clean and deal with these weapons, yes? They must be in good condition for when we need them.”

“If you keep Romeo away from me,” Bodie said, ignoring the lethal look of hatred Felipe was giving him.

“He will obey me,” Carlos said with conviction, a conviction Bodie didn’t share. 

The Spaniard then flicked a glance towards his prisoner, still on the floor tied to the pillar. “What did you find out from our young friend there?”

Bodie gave a start, having completely forgotten about Doyle. He glanced over, ready for that wide eyed gaze and sure enough, it was there, along with unconcealed intelligence as Doyle watched and listened avidly to the exchange. He had the most expressive face Bodie had ever seen, everything he was thinking displayed, as open as a book. How on earth did he do his job effectively?

Bodie felt movement behind him and backed up warily, but Felipe’s attention had shifted from him and was now directed towards the hapless captive on the floor.

Bodie involuntarily tensed. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. 

Doyle’s face, innocent and unknowing switched from one man to the other and Bodie saw those easy to read eyes lock on Felipe and frown, curly head tilted astutely as though presented with a specimen he couldn’t identify. Bodie rocked back on his heels, immensely pleased. Doyle had sensed something; something not quite right about Felipe and his respect for the CI5 agent went up another notch. He was beginning to think Connolly might have had something, when he’d said that Doyle allowed himself to be captured for a reason. The man was deceptively intuitive but although he may have sensed something disquieting about the Spaniard’s brother, he bet Doyle hadn’t guessed exactly what. Bodie hoped, for one small moment, that he wouldn’t find out either.

He answered the Spaniard's question. “Nothing much, he’s not talking. But then you didn’t really think he would, did you? Not if he’s CI5.” Bodie stuck the gun into the waistband of his trousers and wandered over to look in the box the Spaniard had carried up. More beer and a small bottle of scotch, likely for Connolly, who still hadn’t returned.

“Didn’t you bring any food?” he demanded. “You tell us to stay here and not go anywhere, but you don’t bring any food?”

The Spaniard grunted and fortunately for the prisoner turned away. Felipe did not, staying where he was, his cold black eyes fixed on Doyle unblinkingly. Bodie frowned and before he was aware of what he was doing, he had moved to place himself between Felipe and the object of his intense fascination. He touched his gun in reminder and Felipe brought his gaze up, smiling nastily at him. “What is it, _mi armor_?” he enquired softly. “Jealous?” 

Carlos said, “There is food downstairs. We will bring it up. Where is Connolly?”

Bodie jerked his head to the stairs, keeping his attention on Felipe, distracting him from Doyle. “Getting some exercise.”

The Spaniard threw him an undisguised look of dislike and went back to the stairs. When his brother didn’t move, he said something sharply in Spanish and, giving another hungry look in Doyle’s direction, Felipe resentfully followed.

Bodie glanced across at Doyle and Doyle met his look with a flash of mutual understanding that Bodie instantly found reassuring. “What’s his problem then?”

Bodie shrugged and went back to the weapons. “The ropes mate. Has a thing for ropes.” He picked up the SG 540 and began to dismantle it. “And whatever’s in them,” he added softly to himself.

 

***********

 

**Chapter 6**

 

The Spaniard left again, taking his brother with him to Doyle’s immense relief. He wasn’t naïve, not by a long shot and his time with the drugs squad had exposed him to the sordid underworld of male prostitution, perversions and sex rings, including some nasty work with underage girls that had left him physically sick. Doyle had been propositioned before, many times, during his undercover work in Soho, by both men and women - and by some whose original gender was anyone’s guess, but this was different. Before he’d been either able to talk - or failing that - fight himself out of tricky situations or he’d had back up if things got particularly sticky. But not now. Not this time, and not with this one. This bloke was a right mental case in Doyle’s opinion and Bodie’s offhand remark confirmed exactly what pushed his buttons. Doyle was more than slightly apprehensive of the fact that he had been placed, however unwillingly, into a position which had all buttons pushed firmly in the relevant direction. 

He looked at Bodie who was conscientiously beginning on the weapons as per the Spaniard’s instructions. With Bodie’s memory loss, he was even more apprehensive about Felipe’s unwanted attentions, as his partner might just be disinclined to involve himself in the inevitable altercation. Bodie’s natural flair for self preservation seemed much stronger when he was dealing with Carlos, almost disregarding Doyle completely, as though unwilling to show him any favour in front of the Spaniard and Doyle couldn’t be entirely sure that this apathy wouldn’t also extend to the Spaniard's brother. 

Connolly returned and ignoring both of them started working industriously at the table, constructing his bombs with shaking hands and Doyle unobtrusively set himself to grinding the rope against the brickwork again, speculating on what there was between Bodie and the bomb maker. He hadn’t wanted to bring Bodie’s employment to the attention of any of the gang, in case it went against both of them, but Felipe’s revealed appetites had changed the scorecard.

Bodie seemed slightly friendlier with Connolly than the others, if you could call his shuttered face and monosyllable grunts friendly. But he didn’t constantly watch Connolly as he did the Spaniard and seemed somewhat more at ease, although he still ignored Doyle for the most part, even neglecting to bring him any food and Doyle’s stomach complained bitterly, unhappy with the two cups of tea, which was all he’d been given since yesterday lunch. 

“You’ve dealt with bombs before now you know,” he told Bodie. Bodie’s dark blue eyes flicked up and looked at him. “You remember, the one under the car at Marge’s place? And the one Duffy planted? Christ that one nearly had us both.”

Connolly looked up. “What’s he on about?”

Bodie went back to cleaning his gun. “He’s trying to turn my head, telling me I work with him for CI5.”

Doyle gritted his teeth. “You do.”

Connolly snorted. “Bullshit. I saw you lad. You were chasing after Bodie here, gun out. He got hit by that car and that’s the only reason you caught him.”

Doyle glanced sharply at Bodie, whose head was tilted in Connolly’s direction, eyes narrowed. “Don’t believe him Bodie, he’s lying,” and when Bodie didn’t look convinced tried a different tack. “What do you remember? Come on then, do you have anything at all, anything you can’t explain in there?”

Bodie looked back at him and then warily at Connolly again. 

“Me?” Doyle persisted. “You don’t remember anything about me at all? Cowley?”

Bodie shook his head stubbornly and Doyle exhaled noisily. “We were sent to the pub to pick up an informer. I was chasing him from around the back and you were going to get him at the front. Only something distracted you.”

Bodie was looking at him, eyes glazed.

“Was it him?” Doyle jerked his head in Connolly’s direction. “Was it Connolly you saw in the doorway, Bodie, so that the car nearly ran you down? The shock of seeing him after all these years?”

Connolly looked nervous, his eyes flicking from Bodie to the young agent. “He’s a copper, Bodie, he’ll say anything.”

Doyle was incensed. “Tell him what I did Connolly, after he got hit by the car. Tell him I slapped the cuffs on him, read him his rights and carted him off to a bleak cell to bleed him for information.”

Connolly gazed at his shaking fingers and Doyle shouted, “You can’t can you? Because it didn’t happen. I called an ambulance. I stayed with him.”

“Is this true, Connolly?” Bodie asked quietly, but with a dangerous edge to his voice. 

Connolly stood up and glared at them both. “I don’t know do I? I didn’t hang around long enough to find out. Knew he was a copper and that was enough for me to nick off out of there. They’re all a bunch of liars aren’t they? Got it in for us no matter what.” He manoeuvred around the table to stop in front of the dark haired man. “But you mark my words, my son. If the Spaniard thinks you’re a cop with this one, he’ll put a bullet in you right now, so you’d better shut him up about it.”

He stalked out of the room once more, leaving them alone and Doyle was fiercely satisfied he’d spooked the bomb maker into abandoning work yet again.

“How often have you worked with this bloke?” he asked, as Bodie crumpled the cleaning rag in his hands. Bodie glanced up at him. “Once.”

“Only once?” Doyle scoffed, swiftly changing tactics, needling his partner. “And you believe him over me. Tut tut, trusting lad aren’t you?”

Bodie kept his face deliberately calm. “He’s not a cop.”

“Neither am I,” Doyle shot back. “Neither are you. You could never be a copper Bodie, but CI5, that’s right up your alley that is. Legalised mercenaries, that’s what MI6 call us.”

No response from his partner and Doyle tried again. “Come on Bodie, surely you can’t believe you’ve been running around Africa for the past umpteen years. There’s not a thing to prove it.”

“Nothing to prove what you’re saying either,” Bodie threw back at him, slamming down the cloth and getting to his feet. He looked tired, pale, dark rings under his eyes.

Doyle was fiendishly pleased he’d riled him. Good. Serve him right for leaving him trussed up on the floor like a sacrificial nanny goat, open invitation to perverts and sadists alike. “I can get you the proof. But I shouldn’t have to, mate. It’s there, in your head, you just have to find the memory.”

Bodie rubbed his hand across the back of his head again. wincing. 

“And that’s the cause of it,” Doyle persisted. “You need a doctor. Rest at least. Then it might come back.”

“When this job is done, I’ll see a doctor.”

“And what about this lot then?” Doyle shouted, jerking ineffectively at the ropes around his wrists. “Don’t do it Bodie. Don’t help them do this, you’ll hate yourself.”

“Christ,” Bodie complained. “You’re an aggravating little sod, you are. Pack it in before I gag you.” He walked across to the sink and closed his eyes heavily, wincing again as he rubbed the lump on the back on his head.

Doyle watched him worriedly, but Connolly returned, smelling strongly of cigarettes, the nicotine hit having calmed him once more. He took one look at Bodie and unwittingly took Doyle’s side, “Blimey, mate, you look a wreck. Go and have a kip.”

“Can’t,” Bodie mumbled. “Goldilocks there will have you at his throat.”

Doyle swung his gaze from Connolly back to Bodie, hope soaring. He’d grown inured over the years to Bodie’s never-ending supply of nicknames for him, to the point where he barely reacted to them any more. It was the first time since his memory loss that Bodie had used one. It had to be a good sign.

Connolly groaned and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking decidedly hunted.

Bodie surged past the table. “Just gag him, mate, if he won’t shut up.” He stumbled to his bedroll again and was asleep in seconds. Still feeling bolshie, Doyle looked rebelliously at Connolly. The bomb maker picked up the greasy, filthy rag Bodie had been using to clean the weapons and waved it at him. Doyle wisely kept his mouth shut.

 

******

 

_The staircase ascended into the heavens, his goal unattainable as he lurched, panting upwards, fear gripped around his heart. His footsteps echoed in the alleyway, pounding metallic clanks as he drove himself upwards, desperate, terrified he’d be too late. The window, he could finally see the window, the overcast day giving it a sullen grey reflection. The fear made it hard for him to breathe, but still his face was tight, controlled, calm, as he pushed himself towards his goal, the window._

He was in the room beyond the window. He was there and he had to get to him. He’d been trained to act under pressure; to evaluate without emotion and so his face remained calm, cold, but his heart beat like a trapped bird in his chest. The window shrank from him, slamming shut, barring entry and he pulled his gun, felt it fit his palm and the adrenaline was surging through his blood, the fear stronger than ever. For the man in that room. And what had befallen him. He pushed at the window with his gun. It wouldn’t open. He could have howled his frustration. It wouldn’t open and he was on the other side needing help…..… dying.

Bodie surged upright, heart beating sixteen to the dozen, hammering against his chest so hard that his ribs vibrated with the force of it. He took deep gulping breaths and ran a hand over his face. That dream again. Where he was trying to get to someone, someone he cared very much about. But he couldn’t reach him, couldn’t get there to help him. Help who? Who was it? The name skipped along the edges of his impaired memory, dancing mockingly across the tip of his tongue. The urge to reach this person was overwhelming and Bodie felt worse now than before he’d gone to sleep. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat. 

Voices penetrated, obviously what had woken him up. He stood up carefully, placing the loaded handgun into his waistband. He waited for a minute, for the dream to fade, for the panicked sweat to dry on his body, the rolling nausea of abrupt wakening to ease from his belly.

The faint light indicated mid afternoon. Felipe’s voice came to him, growing louder as the man walked into the room. Bodie tensed automatically, hand going immediately to the gun, but it was Doyle that had claimed the big man’s attention, and Bodie berated himself for being slow on the uptake. Of course it would be; Doyle was older than the boys Felipe normally favoured but he was still bound, helpless and that was ultimately the defining attraction. He stepped to the doorway and peered around it. Felipe had come to a stop in front of the CI5 agent, back towards Bodie, just staring and Bodie, feeling a rising disgust, didn’t need to see his face, to know what he was wanting. 

Admirably, Doyle stayed still under that scrutiny, keeping his expression hostile, but Bodie could see the tension around his neck and shoulders as he strained against his bonds. Felipe stood, drinking in his fill, before walking slowly around the brick support. Doyle tensed even further, his face betraying alarm and Bodie frowned, not quite sure what caused that sudden change of expression, particularly since it hadn’t been there when his aggressor was standing in front of him. Felipe reappeared from the far side of the pillar and Doyle slid anxious eyes upwards. But the big man merely crouched down to his side and the look on his face had the operative visibly recoiling. Bodie’s slow fuse began to burn.

“You are hungry, _mi armor_ ,” Felipe asked softly and reached out a hand to run his fingers lightly around the rope binding Doyle’s right wrist. The fingers traced unhurriedly from the rope to the warm skin on Doyle’s forearm, sliding insidiously inside his jacket sleeve.

Bodie saw revulsion fly across that extremely expressive face and something else. Something that the tough agent hadn’t shown up till now. A touch of fear? But not of Felipe himself, Bodie knew, with surprising insight. It was for being held helpless before him that had the fury and fear coming to the surface. Bodie again wondered how the man did his job effectively, when his face gave him away so easily, and he certainly didn’t envy the agent’s teammates; trying to keep that one out of trouble would be a full time job in itself. He thought of being Doyle’s partner and snorted in disbelief. If that were true, they’d end up killing each other. It couldn’t possibly be true; they were nothing alike from what he could see.

Felipe shuffled closer and Doyle instinctively leaned away. 

Again that surge of protectiveness welled up and before he fully knew what he was doing, Bodie had stepped around the corner and, moving as gracefully as a panther, prowled silently up behind the larger man. Doyle’s eyes flicked briefly in his direction and then came steadily back to his aggressor without giving him away. Felipe was still caressing Doyle’s skin around the ropes, voice dropping, husky and soft. “If you behave for me, I will bring you food.”

Bodie pulled the gun from his waistband and stuck it right under Felipe’s ear. “If you behave for me, I might not blow your sodding head off.”

The big man froze and he dropped his hand away from Doyle’s bonds and Bodie felt, rather than heard, Doyle’s small sigh of relief.

“Get up,” Bodie said harshly.

Felipe did so, slowly, and by the time he came upright, his face was composed again. “Ah, _mi amigo_ , you want him for yourself. You need only have said so.”

Bodie smiled a feline smile, well aware that Felipe was trying to antagonise him. “OK, I say so. Stay away from him. First and final warning.” He gestured with the gun and Felipe backed reluctantly away from Doyle. 

Bodie glanced down quickly and was astonished to see a warm smile on Ray Doyle’s mouth. 

“You always said you were the seventh cavalry, nice timing, sunshine.”

And Bodie stood stock still, hearing those words echoing around inside his head, until they settled, falling into place like jigsaw pieces, right into their allotted slots in his missing memory banks.

 

*********

**Chapter 7**

 

Doyle’s current flat was silent, empty, as was the small garage at the back. Murphy peered in the accessible windows, seeing the usual disarray associated with Doyle’s living quarters, but could see no sign of the agent having been there recently. He hauled himself back over the wall separating Doyle’s abode with the street, vaguely noting as he did so how easy it would be for someone not quite so friendly to get into Doyle’s courtyard. “Looks like he took the car at least,” he said to Cowley, who was waiting for him. “We should at least get something on that.”

Cowley looked at the building, quiet in the small leafy lane and glanced around. “Connolly.”

“Eh?” Murphy jammed his hands into his pockets and looked at his chief.

”Yesterday Bodie kept muttering about a Connolly. Doyle said he was quite insistent on the name.”

Murphy looked perplexed. “Can’t recall any Connolly that Bodie might know.”

“Hmm, common enough name. Come on, we’ll check Bodie’s flat too.”

Murphy slid behind the wheel and Cowley reached for the RT. “Alpha, any news on 4.5 or 3.7?”

 _“Negative, Alpha._ ”

Murphy glanced across. “You do think they are together then, sir?”

“Aye.” Cowley was disgruntled with his top team but couldn’t shake the feeling that they were in trouble. “Never far apart.”

Bodie’s ground floor flat proved to be as silent as Doyle’s. Cowley’s uneasiness grew. “Check with the neighbours,” he instructed Murphy as the car radio beeped him.

“Alpha.”

_“4.5’s car has been located sir. Outside the King’s Head pub. Stand by for the address.”_

Cowley waited, confusion adding to the unease. The pub where he’d sent the pair to pick up Kenny Bardon. They hadn’t stumbled on to any IRA activity associated with Bardon surely, Doyle would have said so. But then Doyle had gone back to the pub. Why? And when? Murphy came trotting back as Cowley was scribbling down the address.

“No help there sir, according to the neighbours the young lad keeps such irregular hours, they never know if he’s coming or going.”

“Aye.” Cowley looked up at his tall agent. “They’ve located Doyle’s car. Let’s go, shall we?”

 

*********

 

The men had been coming and going all afternoon. Connolly’s work on the bombs proceeded at a smooth pace and Bodie cleaned weapons, keeping one eye on Doyle, who looked thoroughly fed up, shifting constantly on the hard floor. Felipe watched them both with hot eyes, but said nothing while his brother was present. Garcia came in looking exhausted and slept for two hours on one of the bedrolls. Turnbull appeared towards evening and he brought a rolled piece of chart paper. He and the Spaniard poured over it and then left again. Felipe, with another glance at Doyle, followed his brother. Connolly got up stretching and mooched out to take a walk, easing the strain in his shoulders from his fiddly work. It left Doyle and Bodie in the relative quiet of the early evening. 

Bodie, now that no one was about, filled a glass with water, cut some cheese and bread and brought them over to him, squatting down and feeding him like a small child. Doyle took the pieces eagerly, chewing quickly, swallowing and opening his mouth for more. Bodie smiled despite himself. “Hungry are you?” 

He popped another piece of cheese in and Doyle chewed, agreeing. “Starving.”

“Suppose you’re thirsty too?” 

Doyle took the last of the bread from Bodie’s fingers with his teeth, chewed hungrily and nodded. Bodie lifted the glass of water, eyebrow raised and Doyle swallowed the bread hurriedly. Bodie pushed the glass against his lips and Doyle drank deeply. He tilted his head back when he’d had enough and leaned back against the brickwork, gazing at his partner. “Why the change of heart?”

“Never been a fan of mistreating prisoners unless they deserve it.”

Doyle was indignant. “Yeah? What about the Spanish Inquisition last night then?”

“That was him not me. Far as I’m concerned you were just doing your job.”

“It’s your job too.”

Bodie looked irritated for a minute. “So you keep saying. I don’t want to hear it.”

“I won’t give up on you, Bodie.”

Bodie was surprised at the ferociousness with which this was announced and glanced quickly at the agent. But for all the feistiness of his words Ray Doyle’s face was tired and his eyes, those telltale eyes that never failed to give him away, flicked up and held him and Bodie saw a myriad of emotions held in check. Frustration, anger, resignation – but hidden away behind all that, there was an immeasurable sadness, as though he’d just lost his best mate, and Bodie, uncomfortable, but at the same time wanting to soothe it away, felt himself pulled in two directions. He stood up abruptly. 

“Just one more thing.”

Bodie looked down, not wanting another ear bashing. “Christ, leave off….” 

“My nose is itchy.”

Bodie broke off in mid sentence and looked at him for a full thirty seconds. That impish face, such a complex mixture of emotions; the man himself such a contradictory mass of passionate energy. He sighed softly. God, he’d do his head in trying to work him out. Solemnly, Bodie reached out and gently scratched the tip of Doyle’s nose. Then almost automatically, the same hand angled upwards. The quick, careless swipe through Doyle’s curls left them both momentarily stunned. Bodie, feeling guilty and torn, straightened up and went back to his weapons, fingertips still tingling with that achingly familiar gesture.

 

**************.

 

Doyle was tired, he had to admit it. After a largely restless night, and sawing on the ropes all day, until his arms were heavy and leaden, he would like nothing better than to lie flat on his back in a soft bed and sleep. Bodie didn’t look all that chipper himself. Doyle didn’t know whether it was the after effects of his concussion or whether Bodie hadn’t slept well enough either, despite the hour or so of slumber he’d had in the afternoon. In fact he’d woken looking quite haunted. Doyle wondered whether his conscience was getting to him, but with Bodie it was hard to tell. 

He’d tried to pick up on when this bombing was going to happen but the gist of it seemed to be hinged on something else, something they were waiting on. They hadn’t yet briefed Bodie on what his role would be and that was a good sign that the job wasn’t imminent, thereby giving Bodie more time to recover his memory. Doyle hoped to Christ something would get through to his partner by the time the job was ready or half of London would be blown to smithereens and God alone knew what fate awaited him.

Footsteps sounded and Doyle brought his head up sharply at movement at the door. Here’s trouble, was his first thought and he was right. The woman was tall, shapely, but her cruel eyes and hard mouth spoilt any true beauty she may have laid claim to. She wandered in, and her eyes fell immediately on Bodie, who, strangely, didn’t bother acknowledging her. His head remained tilted down, his eyes fixed on the gun he was cleaning. Doyle watched as she sauntered over, hips swaying, long black hair rippling, sure of herself and her attractiveness. She planted herself in front of him, hips tilted alluringly. Bodie still didn’t look up.

“Long time, no see, Bodie.” He ignored her and her mouth tightened. “You have forgotten me, all these years?”

Bodie looked up then and gazed sardonically at her. “I remember you, Lola.”

She smiled at him, black eyes half closing, a lasting memory surfacing. “Then you remember how good we were together.”

“I remember you nearly got me killed.” He dropped his eyes back to the gun barrel and picked up the cloth. “Carlos doesn’t like to share his women.”

“It did not stop you before,” she said softly.

He ignored her and her eyes flashed with brewing temper.

“You look good, Bodie, this age suits you. You are no longer the boy I knew before.”

“You look about the same to me,” Bodie said coldly, not lifting his eyes from his task.

She waited, eyes hard and hungry on him and still he ignored her. She gazed around then to find Doyle and her smile became cunning.

“So this is our prisoner. Felipe was right.” She walked slowly over and Doyle watched her warily, sensing her malicious intent. “He is handsome, is he not, Bodie?”

Bodie kept his eyes on the weapon, meticulously cleaning the barrel.

Reaching out, Lola crouched down to Doyle’s level; her skirt rustling across the ground and Doyle forced himself to remain silent, face cold and angry. The hard bricks pushed into his back as he instinctively withdrew. Undeterred, she traipsed red tipped nails curiously across his damaged right cheek and then languidly pulled one curl so that it stretched long and straight before letting it bounce back up, black eyes intent. Doyle shifted restlessly as she repeated the manoeuvre with another lock of his hair, reflecting that Maria of the 38 D cup apparently wasn’t the only one with a penchant for curls.

Bodie had stopped cleaning the gun, but still he didn’t look up.

“If you do not want to indulge me, perhaps this one will.” Another curl stretched down to his shoulders before being released, to spring back into place behind his ear. “You will leave us, Bodie? I would like to get acquainted with this one.”

Doyle flicked his gaze across to Bodie. Lola saw it and smiled craftily. Her manicured hand left his hair and followed his neck down to his shirt. The sharp opening snap of a stud button sounded loud in the room. Doyle’s gaze was hard on Bodie as another button snapped open, but his partner had turned his head suspiciously to the stairwell, as though listening. Lola’s red tipped nails slid inside Doyle’s shirt, scraping across firm skin, hard enough for him to hiss at her through his teeth, “Leave off.”

She smiled at him, twisted her wrist and another button snapped open and her hands then came down to his leather belt.

Bodie abruptly put the weapon down. “Leave him alone.”

She didn’t let go of Doyle’s belt and Doyle resisted a strong urge to give her a good kick, instead flexing his wrists against the ropes. As if Felipe’s attentions hadn’t been enough to deal with, he thought resentfully, knowing he had no choice with either of them. He breathed shallowly and waited for Bodie.

He’d sweated out a few close calls with his cool headed partner before now, but at least in those instances Bodie had known who he was.

“Why should you care?’ Lola asked and began to push the end of Doyle’s belt, back through the first loop.

“I don’t,” Bodie told her. “But Carlos wants him alive. You’ll get him killed.”

She tilted her head back, her dark eyes assessing him, challenging him, then leaned in, closer to Doyle, her breath warm against his cheek, coming down towards his mouth. “You or him Bodie.”

Bodie reached her in two easy strides and her smile turned triumphant as he leaned down and hauled her to her feet. He gripped her hair in one powerful hand, tugged her head back and brought his mouth down hard on hers. She gave a moan and clutched at his arms.

“Don’t fall for it,” Doyle snarled. “That’s what she wanted you to do.”

Bodie gave him a cool look and turned his attention back to the girl. “Where is Felipe?”

She gasped as his grip tightened in her hair, but her face was flushed and her eyes were bright. “Gone. With Juan. They will be gone for an hour.”

Bodie smiled as though he didn’t believe her, but nevertheless pushed her ahead of him to the second room. 

Doyle watched them go, sensing more in the entire interaction than what appeared on the surface. She’d been provoking Bodie, that much was clear, and she’d used him as the bait to do so. He had an inkling that she relished the chaos her actions could bring. The Spaniard jealous, Felipe, well he was a right raving nutter, and Bodie? Well who knew why Bodie was playing her little game, he could no longer second guess his partner. He shook his head, thinking they were all raving lunatics. She didn’t bother to be quiet but Doyle ignored the obvious noises and concentrated again on the ropes around his wrists. Bodie certainly knew how to tie ropes and Doyle’s frustration escalated as despite his efforts they remained snug, securing him to the column on the cold floor of this dank room. His eyes fell on the bombs laid out neatly on the work table and even with his limited knowledge he could see them taking shape and desperate, he renewed his efforts, clumsy now in his weariness, nicking skin and flesh so frequently it wouldn’t have surprised him to see a pool of blood on the worn grey floorboards.

He’d thought earlier that maybe bits of Bodie’s memory were returning, but his partner’s behaviour with the woman had made him unsure again. Doyle was at his wit’s end. If something didn’t happen soon, he’d be unable to prevent the Spaniard setting off his bombs. And as if Felipe wasn’t unbalanced enough, he now had to contend with this Lola, a woman who obviously had the Spaniard under her spell, and also, it seemed, his idiot partner. The Spaniard already hated Bodie; his teammate was taking an awful risk, bedding the girl right under his nose like that. Mind you, knowing how perverse Bodie could be; that could be precisely why he did it. 

Doyle forced his aching arms to recommence their sawing motion and his perseverance was finally rewarded by a slight give. He experimented, pulling against the ropes, but they remained firm. Heartened, he kept going, attention fully on that small give he’d felt, half aware of the sudden silence from the other room. But it didn’t seem all that long before he heard her again, cajoling Bodie to walk outside with her. Doyle watched as Bodie, without a single glance in his direction, followed the swaying hips out and down the staircase.

Doyle had no idea how much of the rope, if any, was frayed but he kept doggedly at it, wincing every so often as raw skin around the bindings scraped the rough brick. The rope was still catching in the crumbling mortar and Doyle had previously had to be careful in his attempts to dislodge it, fearful of detection. For the moment he was glad to be alone.

Then he heard a slow heavy tread on the stairs and looked up warily. A large shadow preceded its owner into the room and Doyle clenched his teeth, trying not to groan. Felipe. Oh just great, this was all he needed, this queer nutter in the room with him and no one else about. That bitch, she’d lied. She’d lied to Bodie about Felipe’s whereabouts and set this up. He increased his attempts to fray the remainder of the rope. Felipe wandered in, looking in his direction as he always did, particularly since Bodie wasn’t there to prevent it. 

He poked around the bench and finding nothing of interest, instead slumped at the table, watching him with hot eyes and Doyle inhaled lightly, trying to ignore him, although he was apprehensive about the man’s intent. Carlos and Bodie both had warned him to keep his distance, but now they’d scarpered and left him alone and Doyle didn’t think Felipe was the type to obey orders. Doyle dragged the ropes, trying to make the motion appear as though he was just cramped and restless.

“You are bored maybe?” Felipe asked, idly clicking his switchblade, in and out, in and out. Doyle refused to answer. He felt another slight give in the ropes and buoyed by that tantalising glimpse of freedom doubled his efforts.

Felipe flicked his wrist and the blade shot out, gleaming in the dim light. “You are thinking maybe of some woman?” The knife made drowsy clicking noises but Felipe’s attention was fixed solely on Doyle. “Lola perhaps? She is beautiful, no? Men cannot resist her.” Doyle gritted his teeth and tried to take no notice of him. Felipe watched him, his eyes intent. “Or perhaps you think of a man?”

Doyle felt another give in the rope and desperately sawed his wrists, his arms cramping, his breath coming in shallow gasps, the pain of the Spaniard’s kick still affecting his chest muscles. Felipe abruptly stood up and Doyle tensed, instincts warning him loud and clear that the nutter was finally making his move. His large muscular frame blotted the light from kerosene lamp on the table as he approached him. Doyle frantically strained his arms, trying by force to part the remaining strands of rope. Where the hell was Bodie? He concentrated on the rope, there, another slight give, but how much had frayed, and how much remained?

“Perhaps you would think of me. eh?” Felipe squatted down, near Doyle’s legs and looked at him. There was something cold and calculating in his smile and Doyle again felt the hard bricks against his back as he pushed against them, away from this maniac. “I could let you loose maybe?”

Doyle’s mind suddenly latched onto that, a way to get free. He had no doubt that, were he not shackled, he could take this man quite easily, despite his greater size. He waited warily.

Felipe reached out a hand, fastened it around Doyle’s ankle, thumb rubbing his fibula through the sock. Doyle strained against the ropes again. The hand moved further up that denim clad leg and Doyle’s temper spontaneously combusted into indignant rage. Where did they get off handling him so intimately without even a by-your-leave? He was going to kill Bodie for allowing this mess to happen. Felipe tightened his grip and crept upwards massaging his calf muscles, unaware of the dangerous temper now unleashed. 

“Or,” Felipe had reached mid thigh now. “Perhaps you prefer it this way, no? A little restraint, yes?”

Doyle had had enough. He wrenched his leg away from Felipe’s unwelcome advances and struck out, strong thigh muscles putting considerable force into the kick. His foot caught Felipe solidly in the middle of the chest and the large man went careening backwards. Doyle took as deep a breath as his sore chest would allow and strained at his bonds, using sheer force in a bid to part the last of the fibrous strands.

Felipe staggered to his feet, murderous intent written plainly all over his face, his black eyes cold and unhinged. Doyle saw him coming and again strained against the ropes. The muscles in his neck and upper arms bulged, veins corded through flesh as he used brute strength in his desperate attempt to free himself. Felipe’s fist came down to his unprotected face, just as the rope gave way and his arms suddenly parted company with the brickwork. He was free! But a tad too late as a split second later the enraged man fell on him.

He tried to ride the fist but Felipe’s sizeable strength lay behind the blow and Doyle teetered sideways, dazed as it connected with the side of his head. His left hand came around in self-defence, but his right remained tethered and through the ringing in his skull, he realised that the rope was again jammed into the gaps of the crumbling mortar. He gave an ineffectual tug and brought his left arm up as Felipe came at him again, catching the nutter in the abdomen, although that wasn’t where he had aimed. The large man gave a sharp grunt and doubled up, but Doyle’s awkward position on the floor and his numb, deadened limbs prevented him from putting any real force into his blow. He tugged again with his right wrist, desperately trying to dislodge the snag, the trailing rope from his left slithering like a snake as he fended off his attacker. Felipe dropped down and Doyle suddenly had a knee across his throat. He swivelled, got his left arm under the knee, but his right, still trapped in the brickwork was almost immobile, the rope cutting cruelly into his wrist and wrenching his shoulder socket as he tried to roll away.

“You little bastard,” Felipe leaned down and hissed close to Doyle’s face. “But now you are mine.”

Doyle pushed at the knee unable to gain leverage to hoist the heavy man off him. Lack of oxygen was causing stars to float about in front of his vision. He felt the close presence of the man bending to him, perceived his growing excitement and stopped trying to dislodge the knee and instead brought his left arm around, grappling for hair, face, anything he could get his hand on. Felipe laughed and caught the flailing wrist, holding it down easily and Doyle had nothing left to fight with. He was fast losing consciousness and this lunatic wasn’t going to leave him in peace once that happened. Felipe forced his left arm in close and with his free hand wrapped the trailing rope around his neck, pulling tight, before removing his knee and sprawling his heavier weight over his captive. Doyle’s vision was clouding over and his mouth opened, a desperate attempt to draw air in past the tight rope cutting into his windpipe.

Felipe’s hot breath misted on his face, excruciating pain exploded in his bottom lip and his mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood. Doyle wrenched his face away, gave a last desperate effort, caught something soft under his thumb and instinctively gouged. Felipe let out a blood-curdling scream, but Doyle didn’t see anymore. Darkness descended rapidly and the last thing Doyle heard was the excited gasps of his tormentor as hands fumbled, tearing at his clothes.

Then, blessedly, the tightness was eased from his throat and he could breathe again. The weight crushing his body abruptly disappeared and instinctively Doyle rolled groggily onto his side, wheezing, the blood in his mouth rattling as he gulped air past his abused throat, inflating his starved lungs. His sight came back, wavering and distorted. The world was upended on its side and he blinked trying to focus. He could see a pair of elegant English leather shoes, expensive, if sadly creased trousers. They belonged to legs that seemed to tower up. Doyle knew both the shoes and the trousers. He heard the ominous click of a gun being cocked. Heard his partner’s voice, the volume strangely loud and muffled at the same time.

“Up to your old tricks again, Felipe? You never learn do you?”

Doyle couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen. The rope was still twisted around his neck, his left wrist pinned to his shoulder, his right arm still tethered, stretched tight to the old brick pillar, there seemed an abnormal amount of cold air drafting around his shoulders and the tight straps of his holster were missing, removed somehow.

Bodie’s voice was cold - calm and controlled - but cold. Doyle, who knew his partner better than anyone, could hear the underlying fury in that coldness and he briefly wondered if Felipe had any idea of the danger he was in right at that moment. He struggled to move, to get up but nothing cooperated. Feebly he gave another pathetic tug on his anchored right wrist, but the darkness claimed him.

 

************

**Chapter 8**

 

The gold Capri was parked neatly at the side of the road and a uniformed policeman was standing by the bonnet. Murphy pulled to a stop blocking the traffic and Cowley alighted briskly, looking up and down the street, noting the run down appearance, the litter and the graffiti. He was under no illusions as to the sort of people that lived in these dark narrow streets. Nodding to the uniform and flashing his ID, he asked, “Do we know how long it’s been here?”

The constable shook his head and gestured to the pub. “Clammed up tight in there. I suspect the barmaid knows more than she’s telling, but she won’t answer my questions, sir.”

Cowley looked inside the locked vehicle. A leather jacket lay on the backseat – Bodie’s. There was nothing else of interest to be seen. He straightened up as Murphy came trotting back from parking the car and glanced first at the pub and then at his watch. If, as he suspected, the vehicle had been here overnight, it would be coming close to 24 hours since both his agents had disappeared. He glanced at Murphy’s handsome profile and smiled. “You like barmaids, don’t you, Murphy?”

Murphy closed his eyes briefly. George Cowley never completely came out and ordered his agents to use their physical looks to advantage, but he wasn’t averse to letting it happen either. Despite his own looks Murphy was uncomfortable with this method of questioning, although he knew that Doyle and in particular Bodie had no such reservations, often laying outrageous bets with each other over how far their questioning could get them. Now Cowley expected him to charm a barmaid. He sighed softly and dutifully followed his chief into the pub. 

Cowley looked around and managed to ignore the decrepit decor and stale aroma of the place. There were very few customers, it still being early and the bartender and one barmaid were behind the counter setting up glasses. Trailed by Murphy, Cowley wandered over. The barmaid looked up suspiciously and not a little worried and Cowley sought to put her at ease. He introduced himself and Murphy, proffering his ID. The girl looked at the ID and then up at Murphy and her eyes lit up. Murphy gave her a friendly smile.

“We’d like a little help if that’s possible,” Cowley said smoothly, including the barman in his conversation. “The gold Capri outside, have you any idea how long it’s been there?” 

Harry the bartender resolutely kept his mouth closed but Rita glanced up at Murphy again. He gave her an encouraging smile. “Belongs to a mate – we’re wondering where he is.”

Rita pursed her lips. “It was there when I finished me shift last night and it was there when I came in an hour ago.”

“What time was that, love?” Murphy asked, leaning on the bar and looking at her directly. “Last night?”

“Round midnight,” she smiled back at him and added, “This must be my lucky week.”

“Why’s that then?” Murphy deliberately stayed friendly, sensing Cowley’s approval next to him.

“Don’t usually get good looking young blokes around here, let me tell you. It’s beginning to be a nice change.” Rita, from long habit, made sure her best assets were amply displayed.

Cowley didn’t bat an eyelid but Murphy had a harder time not grimacing. “You’ve had some recently then?” he prompted, trying to steer her in the right direction.

“Too right.” Her garishly shadowed eyes became dreamy and her voice softened with longing. “One in here last night. Tightest jeans I ever saw and blimey, did he have a gorgeous arse to put in them too.”

Mouth twitching, Murphy glanced sideways to see how his boss would react to that statement, and quite possibly about one of his operatives. Cowley looked faintly startled, but rallied effectively. He said; “What er…other attributes did this man have? Can you describe him?”

“Can I.” Rita looked dreamily at Murphy again. “Not as tall as you love, but not short either. Fit, hard, but he was clean and he smelled nice, and his smile….,” she sighed wistfully, and spoke almost to herself. “He had the most kissable mouth. And he looked… well a bit wild, if you get my meaning. A hot body like that, he’d bound to be wild in bed. Wouldn’t he?” She looked up assertively, as though expecting them to concur wholeheartedly with her, ready to argue if they didn’t.

Murphy studied the ceiling trying to control a sudden desire to laugh. Well the old man had asked for attributes hadn’t he? And she’d provided them all right. If this description was for either of his missing colleagues, and Murphy was reasonably sure it was, he’d never let them hear the end of it.

“Er…quite,” Cowley agreed, considerably less amused than his agent, and wanting a solid description. “What colour was his hair, eyes? Did he have any distinguishing features?”

“His hair?” Rita blinked, distracted from wanton thoughts of denim Levi’s sliding off long legs. “Well, dark, long. Curly. His eyes were sort of a… greenish bluish colour. And he had a bump, right here.” And she brought a forefinger up to her right cheekbone before adding defensively, “Didn't stop him being gorgeous though.”

Doyle then, and knowing that his colleague’s whereabouts, maybe even his life, could depend on what this tarty barmaid was able to tell them, Murphy abruptly became serious. He leaned back in; attempting to get her mind off Doyle’s physical looks and on to what had happened to him. “Did he talk to you then?”

“Showed me a photo,” Rita confirmed. “Another good looking bloke, dark, broody, the sort that looks to be dynamite between the sheets.”

Murphy covered his mouth with his hand but Cowley just nodded as though resigned to the barmaid’s colourful descriptions. “And had you seen this man before?”

Rita shook her head. “No, but I wouldn’t mind. Would have had a hard time choosing between them if you get my drift. The cute one was looking for him.”

“And what happened to the..er…cute one?” Cowley asked, a cynical edge creeping into his voice.

Rita became suddenly nervous and glanced towards Harry whose lowered eyebrows and set mouth looked anything but friendly.

“We don’t want trouble,” Harry said, putting down the glass he was wiping clean and moving forwards. He stood belligerently at the barmaid’s shoulder, arms folded, glowering.

“Is that so?” Cowley said icily. “Well I’m afraid trouble is what you are going to get unless you can tell me what happened to this man. Or perhaps I will run you both down to local station and you can tell me there.”

Rita glanced at Harry. His mouth set, but he knew a tough man when he met one. Defeated, he nodded to her. She looked back to Murphy pleadingly. “I don’t know for sure.”

“Just tell us what you know, love,” Murphy prodded her.

“There was this man, he’s been here a few times this week, sourcing business, if you know what I mean, he was Spanish or Italian, something like that. After the gorgeous one in the tight jeans showed me the photo, he came and asked me who he was and what he wanted.”

“And he was just looking for the man in the photo?” Cowley interrupted quickly. “Nothing else?”

“No.” Rita shook her head. “He was looking for a Connolly too. I didn’t know either of them I swear, but the big man, he wanted to know too.”

“What happened after you told him?” Cowley demanded intently, the uneasiness he’d felt since early this morning hammering at him now.

“He went out the back. And…and… the cute one went after him. I never saw either of them again. And that’s all I know.” The last was finished on a rising note of panic.

“Ssh ssh,” Murphy soothed her. “You did well, it’s OK.”

They had a feeling they wouldn’t find anything, but they followed the hallway to the back door just in case. 

“Cute one?” Murphy shook his head wryly, wondering what on earth Doyle had done to the girl to make her so enamoured of him. There was nothing remotely cute about Doyle when he was in action; armed with his temper and a semi auto, he could be downright frightening.

“Aye,” Cowley flicked him a look. “Not quite the description I’d use for Doyle either, but it’s obvious he was here last night.”

“Looking for Bodie,” Murphy confirmed and glanced around, anxiously concerned for the well being of both his teammates.

The alley way was, if possible, worse than the front of the establishment and Cowley looked distastefully at the overflowing bins.

“Car?” Murphy queried, looking around. “Not really room for one is there?”

“No, but doesn’t mean there wasn’t one up at the corner. But Doyle coming second best in a one on one? He’s not that careless.”

“You still think he and Bodie are together then?”

Cowley nodded slowly. “Too much of a coincidence for them both to disappear.”

“Where does this Connolly fit in?”

Cowley was thoughtful for a minute then he looked up at his tall agent. “I don’t know, but he’s a name from Bodie’s past, not Doyle’s. I’ll dig around a bit; see if I can come with anyone by that name from Bodie’s army days. In the meantime, we’ll keep an eye on both their flats and we’ll get the other lads out to their underground contacts and see what they come up with.”

 

*********

**Chapter 9**

 

The voices faded in and out, angry, raised, a mixture of Spanish and English. Only one voice remained calm. And even then that calmness was a sham. “He should have left him alone. I warned him.”

More Spanish.

“You dare to do this again! To him!” That came through in clarity. Carlos. The big Spaniard.

Doyle’s heart beat unnaturally loud in his ears. He remembered, it seemed a lifetime ago, sitting beside Bodie in the car. _Big Spaniard, you’d think he’d go back to Spain, but for some reason he always came here._

“He asked for it. He’s lucky I didn’t blow his sodding head off.”

“He is just a cop. We will kill him anyway.” Felipe, sounding muffled.

“He nearly blinded Felipe. Juan, let your brother have him.” That voice, feminine and filled with malicious glee. Lola

There was no answer from Bodie and Doyle tried to move. Both arms remained secured, the right still outstretched, the wrist burning, his shoulder socket aching. The left… strange, whenever he tried to move his left hand, something tightened around his throat, choking him. His heart beat faster and the voices faded again, muffled in volume.

“He is coming round, secure him again, only use the chain this time. _Mierda!_ How did no one notice that he had freed himself?”

“Told you to be careful with him.” This from Bodie, sounding positively cheerful.

Footsteps sounded loud and then faint and then loud again. Doyle tried to move once more, and again that constriction around his throat, the cold air on bare skin. He thought he heard the slow slithering of a chain and tensed but then that faded away as well.

When Doyle next woke the room was in darkness. He shifted and couldn’t stop the groan from rising in his throat.

“Easy.”

Instinctively he tried to rise, but a strong hand pushed him flat, remaining firmly on his chest to keep him there.

“Wake up properly first.” Bodie’s voice. 

Doyle forced his fuzzy vision to focus on his partner. Bodie squatted, holding a glass of water in one hand. He watched Doyle and there was something guarded in his expression. Doyle squinted trying to make it out. Humour? Couldn’t be, could it? But then Bodie smiled at him confirming his guess. Not finding anything remotely funny in his present situation, Doyle glared back sourly. His throat felt tender, the constriction still there around his neck and his vocal chords rasped as he attempted to speak. His mouth didn’t seem to want to form the words and he swallowed with difficulty, the tang of blood still sharp on his tongue. “Share the joke.” 

Bodie shook his head in reluctant admiration, the smile remaining. “God you fought him, didn’t you? Bloody fierce you were.”

Doyle tried lifting his head, but there was a weight adding to the tight constriction around his neck, heavy and cold. “Well what’d you expect me to do?” he enquired testily. “Tell him I had a headache!”

He shifted again painfully, realising belatedly that his hands were free. He raised them to his neck and felt metal links, cold and hard, tight against his skin, heard chain rattle as he rolled over, a heavier weight dropping onto his shoulder; his questing fingers identifying a padlock. Bodie assisted him upright, then manoeuvred back out of range and Doyle leaned against the brick pillar, wheezing slightly. He glanced at Bodie; saw those dark blue eyes fixed solemnly on him, the smile gone.

“What the hell is this?” Doyle indicated the trailing length of chain, which now draped across his chest like an obscene Christmas decoration. His vision was clearing now and he could feel his injuries more keenly. The burning wrists, the sore shoulder joint, his tender throat, his bottom lip, which felt swollen and hot. He used the back of one hand to touch carefully at the swelling. It came away bloody and he then examined his wrists, which were scraped raw from the brickwork.

“You gave them a scare,” Bodie said softly, eyes intent and watchful, respectful of the man’s abilities. “They didn’t expect you to slice yourself open, fraying the rope. Not taking a chance now though, chains are a bit harder to break.”

Doyle looked from his freed hands to Bodie again and Bodie gave a slight shrug. “That was my doing. Said that if he couldn’t control his brother then you had to have some chance at fighting him off. Mind you, swapping rope for chains isn’t likely to dampen his…er… enthusiasm, since restraint is what turns him on. But at least you can use your hands now.”

Doyle sniffed loudly, dropped his head wearily back against the post and said coldly, “Charming.”

“The Spaniard insisted the chain be locked tight around your neck. Thinks he’ll be able to control you better that way,” Bodie added helpfully when Doyle closed his eyes tiredly. “I was going to use an ankle.”

Doyle opened his eyes again and regarded his partner. “This the same Spaniard that comes back here like a homing pigeon every year. The one you had trouble with, over a girl?”

Bodie gave a start and immediately schooled his face back to impassiveness. “How did you know that?”

Doyle brought his fingers back to his lip, gently rubbing it, feeling the injury. “You told me.”

Bodie stared at him blankly. 

“On the way here, in the car,” Doyle elaborated. He tilted his head on one side. “You recognised the area. Said you’d worked with him in Africa. Wondered why he never went home to Spain.”

Bodie stood up abruptly and backed up a step. How could he know? He’d never told anyone about the Spaniard, that he knew anyway, never wanted to relive any memory associated with him. He glanced at the door. The Spaniard wouldn’t have said anything either, he was sure of it. How could he know? Did he know the rest? Nervously, he looked down at the CI5 man again. “What else did I tell you?”

Doyle gazed at him, wide expressive eyes searching his face. “That’s it. Well apart from Maria with the 38D cup who likes curly hair.” He shifted restlessly again and saw that Bodie appeared worried. He slanted a curious look at his partner. “You hardly ever talk about Africa. Except for exaggerated nonsense to keep the other blokes entertained. Although Krivas was a blast from the past you didn’t expect, did you? And I assume the same for this one?”

Bodie inhaled sharply and felt that ever present throbbing in the back of his head flare up. CI5 might, just might have a file on him and it just might hold more information than Bodie was comfortable with. But damned if any of this would be in it. He stared at Doyle, face pale. Could he be speaking the truth? About everything? Bodie’s last clear memory before the injury was working the Congo line with Connolly. The date on the newspaper on the table had given him a shock as to how many years were missing. He had to have been doing something. But army? CI5?

Doyle was watching him, not without sympathy. “You know, if you got me out of here, I could prove it to you.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Bodie immediately closed up. “Of course you would. Oldest trick in the book that.”

Doyle’s expression abruptly altered, tough and deadly - perfectly matching his voice when he spoke. “I’m going to stop this bombing, Bodie, with or without your help. But you’re my partner, no matter what you do or don’t remember. You’d better be watching my back when the time comes.”

Watching my back. Bodie froze as the rasping words swirled around, awaiting their rightful place in his memory. Another familiarity. He saw the narrowed eyes, the determined bloody mindedness, the utter conviction of the man and knew without a doubt, that he meant every menacing word. 

_Watch your back! You watch it…._

Then, just as abruptly, the face altered again, head lolling back with utter weariness, wide eyes closing in apparent defeat.

Bodie gazed down at him. Doyle looked singularly pathetic, sitting with knees drawn up like a kid, dabbing ineffectively at his bottom lip. His wrists were smeared with more blood and his shirt was torn wide open, bruising and red scratches around the chain at the base of his throat, more across the graceful wings of his collar bones. Bodie wasn’t taken in by his appearance though, he’d witnessed first hand how vicious the man could be, how hard he could fight, how unpredictable he was. It wouldn’t do to underestimate him and yet he had a feeling that people constantly did. 

It jabbed at him again. This comfortable feeling he had around the man. Bodie was no fool. It was obvious he knew Doyle, but he still had trouble believing the other man’s version of their connection. Bodie couldn’t imagine being tied down to anything, never mind a law enforcement agency. He couldn’t believe he’d be offered, never mind willingly accept, the job given his past history with the police. His head throbbed anew, as it did every time he tried to fill in those blanks. 

Doyle disregarded him for minute, in favour of taking stock of himself. His attention shifted from his lip to his neck, inserting a finger to try and ease the snugness of the fetter, which the Spaniard had, in retaliation, secured unnecessarily tight. It was a single length of chain, one end looped around his neck, secured with a small padlock, the other end looped around the base of the pillar with a second padlock leaving around eight feet of loose links between the two, which would at least give him some freedom of movement. He tried to clear the blood from his throat.

Bodie remembered the water but kept a respectful distance from the unpredictable agent. There was enough excess chain for Doyle to use it as a weapon if needed and he had no desire to be its first victim. 

“Here.” He reached out with the glass. “Better rinse, he could have rabies for all we know.” 

Doyle looked quizzically up at him, head on one side.

He nodded at the swollen bottom lip. “Felipe. He bit you.”

“Bit me?” Doyle repeated in surprise, having no recollection of it. “Felipe did?” He raised his hand again and felt the swollen bloodied corner of his mouth, grimacing with distaste.

Bodie said awkwardly, “It’s his trade mark, his brand. He does it to anyone he gets his hands on.”

Doyle made no threatening moves, just reached across easily to take the glass with a nod of thanks. “How do you know that then?”

Bodie let out a small sigh. Admittedly, he felt more at ease in this man’s company than he did in the Spaniard’s, and there was this vague sense of trust that he found both alien and comforting. Yet he still hesitated for a minute, not answering, until Doyle looked up enquiringly, his mouth holding the water, letting it trickle slowly down his abused throat. 

Bodie suddenly and desperately wanted his memory back. The familiarity he had with the man was getting stronger and with it the confusion. By nature he was a private person, never revealing much about himself, but he felt a strange sort of kindred spirit with the agent. Intuitively he knew that Doyle would take what had happened badly, he himself had done so once. He squatted down again, taking a risk by coming into range of that chain and those capable slim hands. Doyle watched him warily. 

Bodie caught his lower lip in his teeth, stretching the skin beneath, pointing with an index finger. Doyle frowned, squinted in the poor light, and saw a small scar there. He’d never noticed it before; it was aligned almost smoothly with the natural crease in Bodie’s bottom lip. It was old, a faint white jagged line.

Bodie stood up and stepped back, smoothing his face into indifference. “It was a long time ago.”

Doyle didn’t say anything for a minute but his eyes widened and then Bodie was astonished to see anger flood them, clear as a bell. “He branded you then? The same? That’s why you stopped him? Hate him?”

Bodie nodded, his insides in a knot, although he kept his face calm, waiting for the reaction, the natural assumption that would follow, the disgust that would accompany it. It didn’t come. Doyle took another sip of water and regarded him levelly. “I gather you fought him. Fiercely? Knowing you, it’s a wonder you didn’t put a bullet in his sodding head.”

Bodie gave a short humourless laugh. “Believe me, if I’d had a gun at the time, I would have. Although I did manage to repay him in kind.” At Doyle’s puzzled look, he shrugged slightly. “He made a mistake, didn’t know I was armed. He should have done. We are both mercenaries after all. Always hide a blade within reach. Sliced the ropes and then sliced him.” Bodie drew a line from eye to mouth in illustration. “He didn’t try it again.”

Doyle regarded him curiously and dabbed at the cut on his lip again. “Ropes?”

Bodie knew what he was asking. He gave a slight shrug and answered. Succinctly. “Lola. She’s the lure.”

 

  
*********

 

**Chapter 10**

 

Ray Doyle lay huddled on the floor under a thin blanket that Bodie had tossed in his direction the previous night. It was bitterly cold but at least he could now stretch out, and the burning ache between his shoulder blades was starting to ease. The same couldn’t be said for his throat, which had sustained some sort of damage judging by the rawness of his voice. The chain clinked gently and he again inserted a finger between it and his neck, trying to block out the choking sensation. He hated anything tight around his neck, favouring open necked shirts, even in the dead of winter and Bodie well knew it. 

Well he knew it once. The thought depressed him momentarily. Not having that connection with Bodie cut deeper than he’d imagined it would. What if his memory never came back? 

Pale grey light at the high windows informed him that dawn had arrived and Doyle stretched stiffly, the chain clicking again, loud in the quiet room.

“Shuddup.” The voice came from the other room, petulant and annoyed. 

Doyle grinned and sat up, ignoring the sleepy disgruntled voice of his partner. He rubbed his hand thoughtfully over his chin, feeling the new growth of beard - he’d give a lot for a shower, a long hot one to ease all the aches and pains he seemed to have accumulated in the last day. Failing that, a simple wash would even be nice, but he wouldn’t count on it. He didn’t know what sort of damage he’d done to Felipe but the Spaniard had taken no risks with anyone releasing him and kept the key to the padlocks with him. Doyle reflected that it was probably a good thing he’d barely been given anything to eat or drink or he’d be feeling a tad more uncomfortable than he already was. He had prowled the room to the extent of his leash finding nothing he could use to pick the locks, but he kept a sharp eye out in the meantime and hoped the Spaniard would come back this morning and allow him to use the amenities.

He set about doing some warming exercises, stretching taut aching muscles, manoeuvring stiff unresponsive limbs until he felt almost normal again. Apart from the restriction around his neck, and his temper simmered, hating the reminder that he was still a prisoner. His tummy rumbled, tight and empty and Doyle also hoped he’d get fed decently today or that could be a problem as well. The slight dizziness he’d experienced when standing upright was likely accountable to lack of food rather than injury and he didn’t want it to get worse.

Bodie appeared, just as he was finishing a set of leg stretches, dishevelled, rumpled and wearing a black scowl. “Noisy bastard.”

“You look like hell, mate.” Doyle flexed his wrists and rubbed at the rope burns, cheered at this successful needling of his partner. 

Bodie felt like hell. That damned nightmare had haunted him again, that desperate need to go through the window, to get to the person inside. The visions were so strong it was like he’d already been there and done it. He wondered if it was his memory trying to return but couldn’t imagine caring enough about anyone to have that bone wrenching anguish he’d felt for the unseen person in the room behind the window. He eyed Doyle sourly.

“What are you so chipper about?” he grumbled, wandering over to the kettle and sounding so Bodieish that Doyle, caught by surprise, laughed.

It rolled out, low and throatily, immensely out of place in this prison like room and Bodie’s reaction to that dirty, infectious laugh was shattering. His head shot up from the kettle, face draining. Not a gentle nudge this time, this was a full-blown assault against that stubborn blank wall in his head. 

He stared at Doyle, as if he’d seen a ghost and Doyle, abruptly serious, walked quickly forward, stopping at the point he knew would have the links cutting into his neck. “What is it? Have you remembered something?”

The tap was running but Bodie was unaware of it. He could hear echoes of that same dirty laugh, his own response to it, could feel his spirits lifting every time it peeled through the recesses of his memory. 

His memory! Shapes were beginning to flit in and out of the mists in his mind, still indistinct, but voices were more consistent, coming through patchy, like a faulty tape recording, overlapping each other. The commanding Scottish voice was a frequent visitor, brusque and sharp, and the street-smart voice of his smart mouthed captive, oh yeah, that was there all right. But Bodie, wary, still suspicious of the relationship, didn’t acknowledge this to Doyle. Friend or foe? Any voice would be familiar if he’d heard it enough, but that laugh, that was something else again. Water splashed over his hand. He jerked the kettle away from the tap and set it on the burner of the camp stove. 

_Throw her on the bed…. And frisk her…._

His head throbbed and he rubbed at it, willing that tantalising scrap to emerge, solidify.

“Come on, Bodie, try, you have to remember.”

“Pack it in, will you.” The images flitted wispily away like ghosts and Bodie sighed heavily. He claimed the cups and dumped tea bags into them, head aching with his troubled thoughts. “I’m in enough of a spot as it is.”

Doyle stood, braced easily on his feet, eyes penetrating. “The Spaniard? You don’t trust him?”

“Trust him?” Bodie dumped milk into the cups and reached for the packet of sugar. “Course not. Would you?”

“Then you have nothing to lose by believing me.”

Bodie paused and braced both hands angrily on the table, still disturbed by those flashes of memory. “Look, mate. The Spaniard and I hate each other’s guts. I sliced his maniac brother’s face with a knife and he hasn’t forgiven me, he’s just biding his time till he doesn’t need me anymore. Lola’s a different kettle of fish, thrives on dissension, she does. She feeds Felipe’s perversions by finding him prey, gets the Spaniard all hot and jealous coming onto other men, and an all out brawl would tickle her pink, be just what she wants.” He picked up the spoon and pointed it at Doyle. “What do you think she was doing yesterday with that little show with you? Grooming you for Felipe and me for Carlos. She’s done it before.” He dumped sugar into both cups and switched the bubbling kettle off. “I just want out.”

Doyle thought there’d been more to that little scene than was apparent at the time. “Is that why you did her? To distract her from me? Because of Felipe? Because she’d done it to you?”

“Hardly, she’s a good ride at the best of times is Lola,” Bodie said crudely, but his words rang hollow, even to himself and he knew Doyle was far too intelligent to believe them. He poured water, reverting back to his impenetrable self with considerable effort. “And it didn’t work anyway; he still had a go at you.”

What was it about Doyle that could rile him up so easily? This uncontrollable urge to watch out for him would get him killed if he wasn’t careful. Had almost done so yesterday. The Spaniard. Christ, if the Spaniard had caught him with Lola…. But he knew, even at the time he knew he’d been safe, knew that she was luring him away to set Doyle up for Felipe. He’d been wise to her ways, she hadn’t lured him quite far enough and he’d seen Felipe creep up the stairs, knew Doyle was helpless against him. Bodie smirked briefly. But he hadn’t been had he? He’d managed to free himself and very nearly bested his attacker and only the rope catching in the brickwork had given Felipe the upper hand. Bodie was vindictively pleased. That would teach them to underestimate the deceptive little bugger. He wondered if the pervert’s eyesight was permanently damaged by Doyle’s attack and maliciously hoped it was.

Luckily, he’d arrived just in time, the CI5 man had already lost consciousness and Felipe, oblivious to his own injury in the heat of his lust, had been pushing at his hips, trying to flip him over when Bodie had hauled him off. But the blood streaming from Felipe’s right eye, and the accompanying gouge down his cheek told him how much Doyle had fought him. He’d glanced at the man behind him on the floor, at the rope twisted around his neck, right arm tethered to the post, clothing damaged, bare skin exposed, the remains of the shoulder holster hastily flung aside and Bodie had felt an uncontainable red hot rage grip him and it was only Lola, running into the room that stopped him pulling the trigger. 

The Spaniard had been predictably furious, but at least most of his anger had been directed at the fallen agent, and not at Bodie. He had produced his own weapon, cold bloodedly stepping over to finish the CI5 man. Bodie had stayed calm, icy, Doyle’s Walther remained in his fist and yet again, to his own disbelief, he’d placed himself between Doyle and harm. 

“You kill him now and you have no hostage until the job is done,” he’d told Carlos and the Spaniard had paused angrily. “It was Felipe’s own fault. What’d he expect? This is no under age runaway, no impoverished boy with nowhere to go. He’s a trained agent and your brother was playing with fire. One day this’ll get him killed.”

Whether or not Carlos agreed with him - or perhaps he did, hoping that one day something would frighten his brother enough to cure him of his fetish - the Spaniard hadn’t pulled the trigger.

Doyle had not come round for some time, and by the time he did they had left, back to wherever they went, when not checking up on Connolly and himself and the bombs. 

He stirred the tea, the fragrance from the warm golden liquid soothing to his muddled emotions. He wanted out all right. Soon as this job was done. And yet he was still in the dark over what was required of him, what the job actually was, and all this waiting was getting on his nerves.

Doyle was watching his partner. Saw the way he still touched the lump on his head gingerly. Bodie’s jaw, like his own, was shadowed with growth, smudges under his eyes, his handsome face lean and tired. He was concerned for him, but they were running out of time. His temper rose again, frustrated at Bodie’s lack of faith, frustrated with his own inability to do anything and it came out in both words and tone. “You half Irish son of a bitch, why are you being so stubborn? It’s obvious he’s going to do you the minute this job is finished. Why risk it?”

More jigsaw pieces, falling into place. Looking up at blurred shadows, the ceiling rolling past, on wheels. He hurt - but he didn’t hurt as much as the man walking beside him. And that street smart voice, muffled, far away…. _you half Irish son of a…_

Bodie rubbed hard at his jaw, the velour like new growth reminding him how long he’d been here – all these tantalising glimpses of his immediate past, but nothing solid. Nothing concrete to provide a picture. He struggled back to the argument, feeling his own frayed nerves grate across his temper.

“Risk, that’s it isn’t it?” He brought Doyle’s cup over, stopping well outside the invisible line that was the danger zone. “Risking him not paying up at the end, risking jail by believing you. You think coppers don’t lie? Course they do.” He held out the mug and Doyle reached out, grunting slightly as the chain tightened around his neck. Bodie leaned until Doyle could grasp the handle, then he moved back again, changing the subject, not wanting to get into another row with the belligerent CI5 man. “Your voice still giving you trouble? Sounds rough”

Doyle took a sip of the hot steaming liquid, feeling the warmth of the tea travel down to his empty stomach. “Yeah.”

“The tea will help.”

Doyle’s head came up at that and Bodie saw that his frustration hadn’t eased at all. “Yeah? Be able to sing at my funeral then won’t I? When they run out of a use for me and put me six foot under.”

Bodie stiffened again, the thought sending him into a near state of panic. No!

Movement behind him and Connolly emerged from the second room, rubbing his eyes, grizzled hair standing on end like a halo. “Christ, don’t you two ever stop bickering?” 

And a couple of more jigsaw pieces swirled into place.

 

****************

 

**Chapter 11**

 

There was a flurry of activity when the Spaniard finally returned. Turnbull and Garcia were with him and thirty minutes later Lola and Felipe arrived, the latter with a large white padding taped over his right eye. Doyle paced the length of his chain restlessly while they sat at the table to confer.

He’d decided to take matters into his own hands once they’d arrived and demanded to use the amenities on the floor below, but the Spaniard wasn’t as dim as he sometimes acted. He’d allowed Doyle the request, but denied Bodie the task, doing it himself instead. Taking great care, he motioned Doyle to the end of his tether before unlocking the padlock around the base of the brick pillar, while Garcia covered him with a weapon. The Spaniard then wrapped the chain around his fist so that it bit into the abused skin around his captive’s neck, controlling Doyle with the leash. His cocked gun remained at his head and Garcia accompanied them. Bodie was highly amused, though he couldn’t fault the Spaniard’s precautions. Thoroughly aware of the CI5 man’s capabilities, he would have done the same. 

Doyle was annoyed with another botched attempt at escape and the fact that they didn’t bother to prevent him hearing their plans confirmed his initial guess as to his eventual fate. He glanced at Bodie, but Bodie was smirking sardonically at Felipe. Doyle let a half smile pull the corner of his mouth. Bodie may have lost the last half dozen or so years, but he hadn’t lost that irritating way of getting up someone’s nose.

Felipe’s left eye was cold and black and he alternated his hate filled glance between them both.

“Met your match, Felipe?” Bodie taunted softly.

“He is still chained,” Felipe hissed back. “You cannot protect him forever.”

Bodie shrugged nonchalantly and eyed Doyle, still smirking. “My money’s on him, chained or not.”

Felipe followed his gaze and Doyle quirked an eyebrow, almost in invitation, gathering the excess chain in both capable hands and twisting it snugly around his wrists, all the while smiling his angelic smile at his tormentor. Felipe wet his lips helplessly, almost leaning towards that alluring temptation.

Bodie snorted in amused appreciation. The cunning sod was deliberately provoking Felipe, trying to get him in range, using himself and his restraints as bait. And if he did, he’d have his own hostage. Doyle didn’t look at all helpless any more, in fact he looked downright dangerous and Bodie had no doubts he’d be able to do it too.

Felipe dragged his gaze back to Bodie, saw his amused expression and said very softly, “I will have him in the end, _mi hermoso_.”

Bodie’s amusement fled and he answered just as softly, “Then you will have to get past me.”

“Enough,” the Spaniard ordered curtly, and added something in Spanish to his brother for added effect. He then gestured to Turnbull who unrolled several charts, building plans. “The job is on for tomorrow night. Connolly you have finished the bombs?”

Connolly gazed at the plans like a dazed rabbit. “Nearly, just the last bits, the timers.”

“They must be ready by tonight. We will plant them after midnight, when it is all quiet.”

“What’s the target?” Bodie asked, looking curiously at the plans, aware of Doyle stretching his chain, trying to see.

“Here,” the Spaniard stabbed with one blunt forefinger. “St Luke’s hospital.” He let one side of the chart roll up and smoothed out the one underneath, “Christian Brothers School, and the old West End Library.”

Bodie stared at the plans, his mind racing, but before he could put thoughts to words, Doyle beat him to it.

“Hospitals! Schools! For God’s sakes, why? Sick people and children. You must be mad.”

Bodie jerked his head up and met instant fury contained within a slim wiry body. Doyle yanked at the chain, his face livid, eyes shooting blue-green sparks and Bodie suddenly had a clear picture of having seen that before. Of hauling Doyle back, restraining that writhing, seething body, pulling him physically away from doing serious injury to the object of his wrath. He stared fascinated as the two images merged and became one, Doyle’s impotent rage blinding hot in the chilly room. He’d seen it before!

Carlos also watched him for a minute, until satisfied that he wasn’t going to get loose and turned back to the maps. “This is where we plant the devices, here, here and here.” He looked at Turnbull and Garcia. “You will take the school. I will do the library.” He gestured at Felipe, then shot a malevolent look at Doyle. “Felipe will do the hospital as he has a perfect excuse to go there.”

He broke off to give instructions in Spanish to Garcia. Doyle was beside himself. His eyes came up beseechingly to Bodie, but Bodie was still mesmerised by the tiny piece of memory he had retrieved. He’d restrained this man, refocused his anger, defused that exploding violence, and not just once. Partners? CI5? It wasn’t possible, couldn’t be possible.

“Now,” the Spaniard went on, rolling up the three charts and unrolling another one. “This is the location of our task. A small but exclusive gallery. These pieces are on loan from the Spanish Government, at the special request of the Ambassador.” He stabbed at the upper floor within a rather small building with a blunt forefinger. “Here, but there will be guards. And alarms.” He looked at Bodie. “This is your position. You are to take out anyone that comes to the back alley until we are inside, then I want you to remain here after the guards are disarmed. Garcia will take this position. Felipe was to take the stairs, but now…” and he threw another hate filled look to the CI5 agent, “He will be removing the paintings and I will help him carry them down to Turnbull.”

Again Doyle cottoned on quickly. “A diversion. The bombs are just a diversion? You’re insane! Just send a threat, you don’t have to actually set them off.”

The Spaniard twisted round to look at the CI5 agent with hostility. “But they will not empty their police stations for a threat, they will not send every available man away from this area on a mere phone call.”

“Then pick a different target,” Doyle yelled. “Why a hospital, a school?”

The Spaniard stood up. “Because they are small and they are not guarded and they will tie up the British police long enough for us to make our escape.”

Doyle looked in desperation to Bodie, but Bodie looked like he’d seen a ghost, face pale and staring. He swung his gaze to Connolly who sat hunched miserably in a corner of the table, eyes down, hands thrust under the table out of sight. “So what is it? Artwork? You’re going to kill dozens of children for a bit of paint?”

The Spaniard, finally provoked, took a threatening step towards him. “As of tonight we no longer need you for security, Mr Doyle. I suggest you be quiet now or I may bring my plans for you forward.”

Doyle’s eyes glittered dangerously but the Spaniard was careful to keep out of his range. “And what are those plans then? A bullet I suppose.”

“Yes, if you are lucky. Otherwise we may just leave you here. No one comes here, no one will hear you, no one will find you. There are worse deaths than a quick one, Mr Doyle.”

Doyle went white and his eyes seemed enormous in that strained face. Bodie twitched again, another memory resurfacing, clearer, accompanied by the slamming of a gun and a small wallet on a desk cluttered with files. He jerked his mind back with difficulty and spoke for the first time, diverting the Spaniard from Doyle’s seemingly suicidal provocation. “How are you shipping this stuff out then?”

The Spaniard gestured to Turnbull. “Security van. It pays to have friends in the right places.”

“And back to Spain?” Bodie pressed and the Spaniard looked up, face uncompromising.

“We are being paid well for this.”

“And it will cause tension between Britain and Spain if the ambassador is involved,” Doyle spat out. “As no doubt your employer intended.”

The Spaniard shrugged. ‘That is not my concern. Connolly, finish the bombs, you have two hours.” He stood up and went to the cardboard box, pulling out a beer. Lola swayed towards him, running a hand over Bodie’s shoulder as she passed and the Spaniard gave Bodie a hard jealous look. Lola turned her head and smiled at him as the Spaniard pulled her closer, possessively and Bodie suddenly was much less certain of his exit out of the country. 

He looked across at Doyle, but Doyle’s anger and disgust was all too evident. Bodie could almost visualise Doyle’s thoughts so revealing were they on that anguished face. His rage at being unable to stop this happening was like a thick mist around him and Bodie shook his head, thinking that Doyle had far too many morals for the job he did. But he had good reason in this instance. Bodie suddenly didn’t like this whole set up and certainly didn’t like where it was going. He rubbed absently at the back of his head wondering when he’d developed a conscience and that thought pulled him back to Doyle again. He seemed to be aware of the man, no matter what he was doing or thinking about, as if Doyle had become an extension of his very being. Bodie wasn’t overly sure he cared for this awareness; he’d always worked solo in the past and for good reason. Now he eyed Doyle suspiciously, the notion of being partners with this volatile man unbelievable, to say the least. 

He was distracted from these thoughts by Lola whispering to the Spaniard, stirring up trouble again, no doubt. And he was even more disconcerted to find the Spaniard’s hard, jealous eyes flick in Doyle’s direction while listening to that seductive voice in his ear.

 

************

 

The bombs were done and ready by four the next morning. Connolly instructed them on how to set the timers and Garcia and Turnbull left just as dawn's grey light was staining the eastern horizon. The Spaniard was well satisfied with the events to date. Just time now, to snip off loose ends. He pulled his gun from his pocket, gave Bodie a warning look and gestured to his brother. Both men stood up moving towards Doyle. Doyle grabbed his chain, ready, but Carlos cocked the gun and aimed it quite steadily. “Put your hands behind your back, Mr Doyle.”

Doyle hesitated and looked, almost involuntarily, to Bodie. 

Bodie was frowning, wondering what they were up to. He saw Doyle look at him and he felt something between them, something that once might have been second nature. Doyle was checking with him, trust and hope plainly visible on that easy to read face and Bodie struggled against it, recognising that it had been an automatic gesture on the CI5 man’s part. Either that or he was a bloody good actor. 

The pleading look was irrelevant anyway, Bodie knew what he had to do, he’d known for a while, ever since the Spaniard had disclosed the locations of the bombs, Doyle’s heartfelt silent plea had just pushed it into momentum. Kids and sick people. Carlos had always been a conscienceless bastard. Bodie didn’t like it, not one little bit. He liked caring about it even less. Bodie didn’t know where this care factor had come from but he wryly acknowledged it was there and looked to Doyle again, resigned to the inevitable.

He gave a small nod and Doyle, face set and hard, obeyed the Spaniard’s instructions with great reluctance, keeping his gaze determinedly on Bodie. Felipe came up behind him and used another length of rope to tie his hands. He tied it tight, leaning in to Doyle as he did so and Doyle resisted the urge to step forward away from the heavier man whose hot breath he could feel against his neck. Felipe did a thorough job and probably would have kept going but for his brother hissing at him in Spanish. Felipe stepped away disappointed and Carlos produced the key to unlock the chain from the base of the column. 

“You going to shoot me here?” Doyle sneered, glad for his anger, which barricaded the fear, kept it safely from display.

“No,” the Spaniard smiled coldly. “Not here, much too messy. Down at the river.”

Doyle flicked his eyes to Bodie again and suddenly Lola was there, smiling at him with her cruel mouth. “You should have given in to Felipe, _mi hermoso_. He would not have tired of you so quickly.”

The Spaniard took the chain and tugged and Doyle was forced to follow. He gave Bodie a hard look as he went past but was not reassured by Bodie’s habitual bored expression.

The grey band of dawn was growing but the river traffic still slept, the busy waters unruffled, still, dark and cold as the grave it was soon to become. It wasn’t until he stood on the edge of the crumbling wall that led down to the slimy mud of the Thames, that Doyle felt the first fluttering of real fear. Made to face the river, he heard the cock of the trigger, ominously loud in the sudden silence, and goosebumps shivered right up his spine to settle in a stab of needles between his shoulder blades, as though he could feel the muzzle of the gun centred right there.

He breathed shallowly, trying to keep calm. Bodie would not let him down, he was sure of it. The partner he knew so well was still there, somewhere in that muddled dark head. He would do something, he would stop this and Doyle fervently hoped it were true. His desperate gaze sought the water, considered just diving in, but knew he wouldn’t be able to swim bound and not with a weighty chain dragging around his neck. He resisted turning his head to look behind him and the wait seemed to take forever, time slowing down, seemingly to stop, sound muting, and Doyle was conscious of his heart, beating very loudly in his ears – faithfully pumping his lifeblood through his veins. And it would keep pumping until it all drained away through the gaping holes made by the Berretta 9mm in the Spaniard’s fist. The wind blew, lifting the curls around his neck with icy fingers and Doyle waited. 

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Bodie’s voice. Finally and Doyle’s knees nearly gave way in his relief. Defying the Spaniard’s orders, he shakily turned around to face the gun pointed right at him.

“You do not think what is a good idea?” the Spaniard asked interestedly, turning his head slightly to look at the younger man over his shoulder. Doyle waited, heart beating furiously, adrenaline pumping, screaming at him to do something.

“You. Shooting him.”

“I agree.” The Spaniard, with surprising alacrity, let the gun sag. He turned around fully and faced Bodie, the dislike still there on his face. But something else as well, something spitefully gleeful. Bodie tensed, mistrustful.

“So you will do it, _mi amigo_.”

Bodie’s expression didn’t change but he was surprised all the same. He stared at Doyle, saw enormous anxious eyes, more green than blue in the bleaching dawn light, acknowledged the nervous anger that still coursed through the man. Then he turned his hard gaze to the woman who waited behind him, legs braced, hands on hips, saw the malicious intent written all over her and knew she was responsible for this and he felt a sudden surge of fury at her duplicity.

The Spaniard was handing him the gun. “You will shoot him Bodie, so that I will have confidence in you, to do this job right. You will shoot him.”

Bodie took a deep breath, feeling Doyle’s uncertain gaze on him, the familiarity of it. 

_Oh thanks a bunch mate, you cut that a bit fine._

Bodie closed his eyes briefly. A clearing in a wood, another gun pointed at Doyle. Doyle’s eyes had been enormous then as well. He’d made him sweat it out and Doyle had been scathing for it. 

_He remembered._

He opened his eyes and looked at them all tranquilly. “All right.”

He took the gun from Carlos. He let it fit his palm, cool and smooth, the weight of it comfortable, and yet he’d always been a long arm man himself. He raised the weapon, gave it a cursory check then straightened his arm, the sights set squarely on the slim, dishevelled form of Ray Doyle, sweating despite the chill breeze coming off the river.

Bodie took his time, lining up, watching as Doyle shifted from foot to foot, could almost hear his thoughts ticking over as he desperately searched for a way out, a way to escape. But there wasn’t one, and tied as he was not even diving into the frigid waters of the Thames would save him.

“Pity though,” Bodie said lazily, as though imparting nothing of real value. “He could save your arse in the long run.”

The Spaniard turned slightly to frown at him. “Save my arse? What do you mean?”

Lola frowned as well, not happy with this sudden delaying tactic. “Do not listen to him, Juan, he is soft on this man and would say anything to save him.”

“Save him?” Bodie said incredulously. “Why would I want to save him? He’s going to die anyway, just thought it’d be better…. But never mind.”

“Better what?” the Spaniard snapped and Bodie let a tiny smirk pull at his mouth. It was well hidden and only one man saw it. Doyle tilted his head and stared suspiciously at his partner, his nerves on edge, totally unaware of what Bodie was planning.

“Well, if a body was found in the wreckage of one of your bombs, and they happen to identify him, it would probably swing their investigations away from anything likely to connect you with it.” He turned and smiled sweetly at the larger man. “Wouldn’t it?”

The Spaniard watched him distrustfully for a full minute. Bodie shrugged and re-aimed the gun. “But if you’d rather do him here.” He began to squeeze the trigger and his sigh was audible even over the wind that moulded Lola’s skirt to her legs and whipped Doyle’s hair into his eyes. Doyle darted wide eyes between his partner and the Spaniard and licked his lips, horribly aware of that finger squeezing the trigger, and unable to second-guess his partner. Bodie deliberately ignored the Spaniard, carefully squinting through the sights.

“Wait,” the Spaniard commanded softly.

“Just kill him,” Lola said in a harsh voice. “Or give him to Felipe to play with. But do not let Bodie sway you.”

The Spaniard rebuked her in Spanish and she subsided glaring. Bodie turned his head almost without interest, to look at the Spaniard.

“They will wonder why a CI5 agent is found within the ruins,” the Spaniard mused thoughtfully and Bodie relaxed marginally. He spared at glance at Doyle, but Doyle looked utterly confused. 

 

****************

**Chapter 12**

 

Bodie paced the room while Connolly tried to stop his hands shaking enough to drink his coffee. The equipment had all been bundled up, piled in boxes ready for removal with the artwork. There was nothing to do now but wait.

Bodie was at his wits end ever since the Spaniard had thrown a trussed and gagged Doyle into the boot of the car early that morning. Bodie had been made to hold the wriggling, squirming man down, while Carlos attended to the rope around his ankles. He hadn’t liked it, nor had he liked Doyle’s condemning eyes on him while he did it.

What else could he do? He’d bought him time, hadn’t he? Now it was up to Doyle, Bodie had his own mess to sort out. 

But still he’d hesitated, unwanted remorse combined with the shards of returning memory causing his head to throb and that strong, baffling urge to protect Doyle surfaced again. Impulsively, acting on the same instinct that had saved his hide on more than one occasion, he had surreptitiously slipped his small knife into the back pocket of Doyle’s scruffy, tight jeans. Doyle had turned narrowed eyes upon him and his fingers had sought the shape of the pocketknife through the denim, recognising what it was immediately. Bodie had winked at him and given a slight nod and Doyle’s eyes had crinkled at him, over the gag.

But Felipe had thwarted any chance Doyle had of freeing himself in the car. Remembering the powerful kick Doyle had given him the previous day and not wishing to have it repeated when they opened the boot again, he’d gone a step further and bound Doyle’s wrists to his ankles. Doyle was left in an arched, uncomfortably painful position, unable to reach his back pocket where the blade lay waiting. Felipe had given Bodie a malevolent smile, before deliberately reaching out and caressing Doyle from face to belt buckle and only his brother stepping between them had prevented Bodie from ramming that smile back down his throat. Bodie had watched his triumphant face as the car drove off, the uneasiness escalating, the feeling that he was deserting Doyle stabbing at him with guilty fingers. He tried to tell himself that Doyle would be able to free himself with the knife once they’d left him tied in the library. He’d contact his organisation to stop this madness and Bodie could slip quietly away and find another exit out of the country. 

He paced some more, mind restless, the apprehension growing. He kept seeing the chain, knowing the Spaniard took great pleasure in the control it gave him. He’d left it around Doyle’s neck. What if the bastard chained him to something instead of just using the ropes? Doyle wouldn’t be able to get free; he’d be trapped. Bodie paced some more, his scowl growing darker by the minute. The more he thought about it, the more he thought that the Spaniard would do it. Just to give him that sense of power, if nothing else. And then there was Felipe. The Spaniard didn’t like his brother’s perversions but would he stop him? _You cannot protect him forever._

Bodie tensed up again, the feeling that he should be rushing to the CI5 man’s side intensifying. He resisted the urge, feeling torn in two directions once again. Despite his flashes of returning memory Bodie still couldn’t bring himself to fully accept Doyle’s version of their relationship. He got the impression that Doyle was afraid of very little, hot-headedly jumping in where he perhaps shouldn’t, and attracting all sorts of trouble with it. Partners? Bodie rolled the idea around in his head and had to admit the idea of being partnered with Doyle was not as unrealistic as he had previously thought. The man was tough enough for sure and smart too, but with a reckless, wild element that would give any partner major headaches trying to predict him. 

No, it was more the notion that he was working for CI5. Yeah that’s the bit that was far fetched, given his past history. How could he, of all people, work legally after being a merc for so many years? Bodie had spent half his life shying away from law enforcement, to be on that side of the fence seemed impossible. So, if it were impossible, then Doyle couldn’t be his partner. And yet, here he was, pacing up and down, worried for the man. He head began to ache, as it did whenever he tried to force his memory to return.

“Blimey, Bodie have a heart. As if my nerves aren’t bad enough without you wearing a groove in the floor as well.”

Stopping in mid stride he glared at Connolly who was looking miserably at his cold cup of coffee, before starting up his pacing again.

“This whole job stinks,” Bodie said pointedly.

Connolly shifted tiredly. “You been listening to that CI5 boy too much, my son.”

“He’s right in this one,” Bodie muttered.

“You never did like innocents getting hurt,” Connolly lifted the coffee cup, realised the contents were stone cold and put it down again with a grimace. “And after all these years it’s still your blind spot.”

“Years?” Bodie stopped pacing again. “When’s the last time you saw me, Connolly?”

The older man looked up surprised. “What do you mean? Outside the King’s Head?”

“No, before that,” Bodie insisted, not caring now who knew about his memory loss.

Connolly looked at him in astonishment. “You mean after the last job with the Spaniard? When I dropped you at the station? But you didn’t really mean that, Bodie, I mean….a bloke like you? Joining the army. You were just letting off steam. After what Felipe….” Connolly trailed away, mortified, and took a gulp of the cold coffee, not even tasting it. “It was years ago, mate.”

Bodie stood stock still and stared at the grizzled old man, at the coffee splashing all over the table from his shaking hands. A mercenary at the end of his usefulness. The best any of them could hope for, if their line of work didn’t kill them first. And for what? In the end, what did it all come down to? The money? Money didn’t last, Connolly was proof of that. At least Doyle knew his purpose, had a reason to keep doing what he did.

The Spaniard had told him to get some sleep and be ready by four, but sleeping was out of the question, not when the land of nod had him running up endless flights of stairs, frantic and desperate, caught in the grip of that persistent nightmare. Bodie was too wired to even try, thinking about Ray Doyle and the mess he was in. And the thought of setting off a bomb in a school and hospital grated on his nerves. Everything about this deal was bad. As Ray Doyle had pointed out consistently, hammering it endlessly, as though it was in the man’s nature to fix every wrong in the world, job or not. The maddening bugger cared too much. He stopped pacing as that reverberated around in his aching head. And slotted neatly into place. 

Abruptly he turned on his heel and made for the door.

“Where you going?” Connolly queried, raising his head in surprise. “The Spaniard said to wait here.”

“I’m not sitting around till four,” Bodie snarled. “I’ll be back don’t worry.”

“Bodie?” 

Bodie turned impatient, worried about Doyle.

“You’d better be back by twelve.”

“Twelve?”

Connolly nodded. “The bombs are staggered. First one goes off at twelve.”

Bodie froze. “Which one?”

Connolly shrugged. “Library I’d say, he’ll want that CI5 man dead before someone finds him.”

Bodie’s blood ran cold. He glanced at his watch. It was nearing ten thirty. Christ! Ignoring the rest of what Connolly was saying, he turned and clattered down the stairs and set off at a run.

 

****************

 

Lucas and McCabe brought Kenny Bardon in and pushed him inconsiderately and firmly onto a hard backed chair in interrogation room number six. George Cowley looked up benignly, peering over his glasses at the frightened man in front of him. 

“I ain’t done nothing,” Bardon whined, looking from one man to the other, automatically hunching over in self-protection. 

Cowley didn’t say anything for a minute, then without breaking eye contact, took his glasses off and threw them carelessly on to the desk before him. “A friend of yours tried to run over two of my boys, Kenny. You knew they were coming for you. Tell me how?”

Bardon licked suddenly dry lips. “I didn’t, I swear I didn’t.”

Cowley looked up straight into McCabe’s youthful face. McCabe reached out and pulled Bardon’s arms roughly back making him gasp more in fright than pain.

Cowley walked around the desk and leaned against it, looking down at Bardon, watching his eyes flick nervously in all directions. “You knew they were coming and set them up. Why?”

Bardon caved in suddenly. “They didn’t like it… all your questions, they want you to lay off.”

Cowley nodded to McCabe and Bardon was released, slumping forward in relief. “The IRA?”

The informer nodded despondently. “It was just a warning, he wasn’t really going to kill them.”

“Who?”

Bardon shrugged miserably. “Paddy. I dunno his real name, he’s never told me.”

“Then he knows you’ve been passing on information.”

Bardon nodded unhappily again. 

“Feeding us false information.” Cowley brought thumb and forefinger up to his chin and massaged gently. “Where are my men, Kenny?”

Bardon’s head shot up, fright quickly returning to his coarse features. “Who? Which ones?”

“Doyle, Bodie, the ones sent to fetch you. Tell me where they are?”

But Bardon looked convincingly bewildered. “I dunno, haven’t seen them since we left the pub.”

Cowley looked at him penetratingly. “Who is the big man, Spanish or Italian, who was recruiting in the pub?”

“Oh him.” Bardon’s expression cleared in relief at a question he could answer. He shrugged his bony shoulders. “Dunno exactly. He wanted an arms man, but not an ordinary one. Never seen him there before. But the day your lads came calling he was talking to an old bloke, called him Connolly. That’s the only time I saw him there.”

“What sort of arms man?” Cowley pressed, but Bardon didn’t know. He shook his head. “He was having trouble finding the right bloke, special weapons, automatic rifles and stuff, too big for the usual muscle down there, they’re mostly hand guns, B&E’s small stuff.”

“And Paddy has nothing to do with this?

Bardon jerked again, frightened. “No, I told you, they’re laying low at the moment, not stirring up any trouble, things are good for them.”

Cowley glanced up and met puzzled, worried looks from McCabe and Lucas.

 

*****************

 

**Chapter 13**

 

The West End Library was housed in an old Victorian building, so ancient, cracked and damp the most practical course of action would have been to demolish it. But the historical society had stomped on this with rallies and protests and letters to the MP’s and so the groaning, neglected building remained, in none of its former glory, a blight in an otherwise quiet little block of offices tucked away in the back streets. It sat solidly in the centre of a small, almost unused lane and Bodie trotted up, catching his breath. It had taken him more time than he had to spare to get across town, hampered by the fact that he had no money. The library was silent, but open, a middle-aged woman exiting as he cautiously checked it out. He wondered briefly how the Spaniard had managed to get Doyle into the building without anyone noticing a break in, but observing several smashed upper windows as he approached, he figured it wouldn’t have been that hard. Not for someone like the Spaniard anyway.

He walked into the foyer of the building and pushed through the internal glass doors to the library itself. The few occupants were mainly elderly, and it was quiet, the faint rustling of books and from somewhere a drowsily clicking typewriter, the only sounds to be heard. Bodie cast a quick look around the room and figured that wherever Doyle was it had to be somewhere that was unlikely to be disturbed for the morning. He spied a door at the back of the main room with a staff only sign on it and coolly set off through the shelves to slip through it, unnoticed. A set of stairs presented itself and Bodie, without hesitation, went up. 

The floor above was plainly used for storage, although an attempt had been made at some point in the past to do some renovating. A box of tools still sat on one of the desks, stiffened paint brushes, cracked tins of paint, canvas dust sheets, all stacked untidily as though the repairer had just got up for lunch, and hadn’t bothered to come back. Broken chairs lay alongside desks and piles of books in various stages of disrepair littered the surfaces. Dust coated almost every item in the room. 

Bodie glanced around worriedly. Although plainly this floor hadn’t been used in years the Spaniard couldn’t be sure that someone wouldn’t come up here at some time, so he’d have to have hidden Doyle, away from chance discovery. He made off further into the building, dodging the clutter, looking… looking for somewhere…there, another door, tucked into the corner there. He hurried over to it, glancing at his watch. Twenty to twelve. The door was locked. Bodie wrenched at the handle but it remained impervious to his rattling. He took a step back and used his shoulder. It creaked alarmingly, but didn’t give. He applied his shoulder again, adding his weight and strength. The door didn’t stand a chance. Bursting open it ricocheted back and nearly struck him in the face. Bodie pushed it more sedately and it swung open. Some sort of kitchenette, come lunchroom, come stationary room - shelves lined the walls and a damp mustiness assaulted his nostrils and he sniffed back an urge to sneeze. Dust! 

He poked his head cautiously in and saw Doyle immediately. The ropes lay parted on the floor, Doyle had made short work of them with the knife, but Bodie’s fears had proven true. He’d freed his wrists and ankles, but could do nothing about the chain that had his neck arched tightly against the pipes under the disused old sink. Bodie hissed in a breath and cursed the Spaniard fluently as he swiftly moved to Doyle’s side. The Spaniard had deliberately secured him to a spot where Doyle could neither sit nor stand and he was forced into a half crouching, kneeling position that would have his leg muscles weeping in agony. 

Doyle had his fingers hooked under the edge of the chain and he was breathing in short sharp gasps and Bodie could see the strain of keeping his neck straight, the links digging into his already abused throat as his legs gradually sank lower. His face lit up though on seeing Bodie come through the door and he nearly smiled. Bodie was strangely touched. He glanced quickly at the set up, saw that there was no way he could pull the pipes from the wall and he had no key for the padlock. 

“Christ,” Bodie whispered. If the bomb didn’t go off first, Doyle would slowly strangle to death. How long now had he been in that position – four, five hours? “This’ll be for Felipe’s eye. Vindictive bastard.”

Doyle gazed at him, his wide expressive eyes distressed, legs trembling, voice croaky and strained. “You can pick them, Bodie.”

Bodie gave him a startled look. “Pick what? The locks you mean?”

“Yes.” It came out as a wheeze.

“I can’t.”

“You can. I taught you. When we were first partnered. You can. Go and find something. Paper clips, a bit of wire would be better.”

Bodie stared at him. “You’re joking.”

_“Bodie!”_

It came out so exasperated, so plaintive, that Bodie couldn’t help himself. He threw a quick grin at his alleged partner and stood up. “Now that - I remember.”

And before Doyle could say another word he was searching through the items on the shelves, flinging pads, pens, paper, forgotten stamps and dried up stamp pads aside in his haste. Bloody hell, paper clips, what sort of office didn’t have paper clips? There’d be some downstairs. He glanced at his watch again, worried. He still didn’t know where the bomb was or even whether they could defuse it. Connolly was an excellent bomb maker; he would have put a few twists in it to fool a disarmer. He made for the exit still disbelieving of the fact that he could pick locks. As he reached the staircase he bumped into a table sending the clutter on it tumbling noisily to the floor. 

Bodie glanced at it, registered what it was and skidded to a halt. The box of tools. He couldn’t be that lucky, could he? Crouching down he swiftly pawed through the dust-laden gear; rust beginning to appear on the once gleaming steel. A saw, pliers, screwdrivers, hammer, nails, screws, tape measure, carpentry tools; Jesus Christ, he swiped his fist and scattered them over the floor and just caught sight of a red handle disappearing into the folds of the canvas dust sheets. He dived for it and brought it up. A pair of wire cutters, smaller than normal and although they wouldn’t cut the padlock, they might just be able to cut the chain. 

Doyle opened his eyes as he returned and gazed at the tool in Bodie’s hands. Bodie knelt down beside him and gently pushed Doyle’s hands away from the links cutting into his throat. Doyle tilted his head trying to give better access, but Bodie couldn’t get the edge of the cutters between the chain and Doyle’s neck, it was too tight and he again felt a surge of fury at the Spaniard’s cruelty. Instead he picked a link at random around the pipe and using brute force, squeezed the handles. For an agonising minute he thought it wasn’t going to work. The metal handles of the cutters dug into his palms and he gritted his teeth as he held on. The chain wasn’t that heavy duty…surely… SNAP. Bodie’s fingers cracked together and he fell slightly forward. Doyle was still balanced precariously, the tension not yet released and Bodie with another quick glance at his watch began to unravel the chain from the pipe. Finally it came free and Doyle fell forward gasping, on to hands and knees. 

“Get something to get this off my neck,” Doyle urged, lifting shaky fingers, trying to pull the chain away, the sensation of choking still gripping him.

“Haven’t time,” Bodie replied shortly. “This one is set to go off at twelve. We’ve got seven minutes.”

Doyle didn’t waste time arguing. He gathered up the excess chain and rose unsteadily to his feet, thigh muscles spasming after being cramped in one position for so long. In the outer room however, he paused briefly to remove his jacket. Balling it around his right fist he stopped at the fire alarm encased in glass in the wall near the door. Doyle used his fist to smash the glass then his left to reach in and activate the alarm. The bell started ringing immediately.

“Come on, mate.” Bodie fidgeted as a strong sense of foreboding swept through him. Doyle glanced at him but didn’t speak and Bodie, having heard his larynx rasping, probably thought it hurt too much. 

They headed to the stairs as fast as possible, but Doyle came to a halt at the bottom, legs trembling. He still had his jacket in one hand, the coiled up chain in the other. “Do you think we should…?”

“No!” Bodie stated emphatically. “I know Connolly, he’ll have made it tamper proof, let’s go, there’s no time!”

But Doyle insisted on making a quick search of the library to make sure everyone had evacuated. Bodie was impatient, but again he recognised that it seemed to be part of this man’s nature. However, the library was mercifully empty, aided significantly by the clamouring bell and its very close proximity to the street. Bodie hurried them both to the glass inner doors, pushed one open to allow Doyle through, then moved past the slighter man to open the outer doors.

He didn’t get the chance. As he reached for the metal bar to push the door it seemed to leap away from his hand. A bright white flash blinded him; at the same time his ears seemed to explode with a horrendous noise. Scorching heat accompanied a heavy thump from behind and he was abruptly airborne, the steps flying past his face at an astonishing rate, the shock wave passing over and under him, muting everything else to a sudden silence. Something slammed hard into his back and Bodie had a brief realisation that he was skidding across the pavement and there didn’t seem to be any oxygen in the air, just that burning suffocating heat.

And then it was gone. 

For a minute he lay there, too stunned to move, an awkward weight sprawled across his back, heavy and warm. It was the burning smell and the very faint crackling noise that finally had him registering. Having had close contact with grenades in Africa he instantly recognised the concussion, the smell, the sense of burning, the eerie silence, as if time had stopped. The bomb. Connolly’s bomb, it had gone off and they’d just got out in time. 

Doyle? Where was Doyle?

Bodie tried to flip over, but the dead weight on his back pinned him down, hindering his progress. He twisted his head to look over his shoulder and saw a mop of dust-coated, dark curly hair. Doyle lay sprawled face down across his back, limbs twisted around Bodie’s own. Bodie carefully sidled out from under the lax body, feeling stabs and complaints flare up all over his own. Cautiously he waited, taking inventory, but apart from a few minor cuts and bruises, and a sense that he’d been shaken very thoroughly by a giant fist, he’d come out relatively unscathed. The same obviously couldn’t be said for Doyle who’d been behind him, and so had shielded Bodie from the worst of the explosion.

His white shirt was lacerated to tattered ribbons and blood was welling, staining the linen. Shattered glass lay amongst his clothing and in his hair. His eyes were closed, the chain still padlocked around his neck, his jacket still wrapped around his right arm. Bodie stared at him for a minute, trying to organise his reeling mind into some sort of action. Incongruously, he noticed the outline of the small knife, snug in Doyle’s back pocket, although the jeans themselves had only fared slightly better than the shirt, skin visible through several small rips across his thighs. 

Then, almost as if a switch had restored his hearing, the screams started, the yelling, and people were appearing, trying to help him up. 

“I’m alright,” he said quickly, not knowing whether it was true or not, but knowing that nothing was going to keep him here if the police had been called, which was highly likely. His voice was muffled to his ringing ears, everything was still muted, but he still forced himself to move. He was extremely conscious of that blasted chain around Doyle’s neck as he resisted the helping hands, instead running capable fingers down the stunned man’s limbs, feeling for injury. Nothing seemed broken; a miracle in itself, but Doyle had copped the full blast on his back and most of the concussion as well, judging by his lack of response. He took a risk and hauled Doyle up, thankfully feeling some sort of weak protest. 

Doyle groggily raised a hand to his head and glass sprinkled out of his curls, dancing like diamonds around his trainers, disappearing into the debris that littered the pavement. Paper, pages and pages of typed writing flitted down around them like confetti. The once quiet lane looked like a war zone, broken glass and bricks and dust and smoke still spewing from the building, which was oddly sagging in the middle, as though a giant hand had pushed down on the roof. There was a hole bigger than a bus where the front doors had once been, but even so, it was apparent that most of the blast had been contained within the building. Luckily, or he and Doyle would be plucking harps right about now, considering the amount of plastic explosive Connolly had used. He could hear muffled sirens and the sound galvanised him into moving. 

“Come on, Doyle, for Christ’s sake.” Bodie glanced around quickly but the people, noticing the chain around Doyle’s neck, were starting to back off, muttering in confused consternation. Bodie swore, thanking God that they were all too shell shocked to actually interfere or things would then get really nasty. He gathered up the chain, hauled Doyle’s arm across his shoulder and supporting his still groggy companion, staggered off towards a line of parked cars. He ignored a Rover and instead made for a little Cortina. It was unlocked and Bodie hurriedly opened the passenger door, giving the unresisting Doyle a gentle push. Doyle collapsed into the seat and Bodie slammed the door shut. He scooted around to the driver’s side and slid in behind the wheel. Doyle hunched forward against the dashboard, looking dazed. Swiftly Bodie reached under the steering column and got to work. In no time at all, the Cortina was trundling down the street, passing fire engines, police cars and ambulances.

 

******************

 

By coincidence George Cowley happened to be finishing a meeting close to the West End, and heard the faint muffled boom as he was walking back to his car. He recognised the noise immediately. Paula, his driver, was on the RT as he opened the door and she looked up at him. “Bomb. The old library, the Met are on their way.”

Cowley frowned as he folded himself carefully into the back seat. “Was it coded?”

Paula shook her head. “No, but there were follow up calls listing five more, all in the same area. Didn’t give specifics.”

Cowley muttered under his breath and instructed Paula to get to the scene quickly. Not IRA, if there was no coded message, at least Bardon had been right there. Then who?

The small lane was now very cluttered with people and vehicles, debris, dust and papers still sifting down occasionally. The old building leaned tiredly and a sizable crowd had gathered, kept behind the taped off areas by a number of uniformed police. Paula parked in the area set aside for police cars, ambulances and the fire brigade and Cowley flashed his ID at the attending officer. “Who’s in charge?”

“Detective Rawlins, sir, I’ll get him for you.” 

The Met had done an admirable job of keeping any witnesses to hand and Cowley was led to a small group of people, shocked and white faced. No injuries, astoundingly.

“The fire alarm sounded,” the librarian, a small bird like woman in her mid 50’s said. “I don’t know who triggered it, but thank God they did. We evacuated well before the bomb went off.”

An older man stood with her, leaning on a cane, watching the scene with small watering eyes. Both seemed quite shaken, as to be expected but to Cowley’s eye, were holding up well. “There were two lads come out well after us. They were damned lucky - as it was the blast threw them across the footpath.”

“Where are they?” Cowley looked around but the older man shook his head. “Left. In a hurry too, bad form if you ask me. Couple of thugs by the look of them, wouldn’t be at all surprised if they set the damn thing.”

“Could you give a description?” Cowley asked, thinking of the IRA mug shots back at headquarters.

“Certainly. Both dark haired, one curly the other short. Medium height, fit, young, late twenties or so, casually dressed. One of them got a right blast, nearly tore the shirt off his back and it certainly did some damage judging by the blood. It took a while to bring him round.”

“Would you recognise them again from a photo?” Cowley asked, pleased the old man had been so observant.

“Oh yes. The one that copped the blast had an old injury to his face, on his cheekbone, very distinctive. The other was surly, aggressive, wouldn’t let us help either of them.”

Cowley stared at him unbelievingly. “Anything else?”

The librarian spoke up, “The one that was hurt. He had a chain around his neck. It was most odd. The other one was leading him by the chain and helping him at the same time.”

Cowley blinked at that. “A chain?”

“Yes,” the librarian nodded and looked rather flustered. “It was padlocked and… well, I got the impression that he wasn’t there of his own free will. There was a lot of bruising around his throat. We didn’t know what to make of it.”

Neither did Cowley. Baffled he asked, “Did this man resist in any way?”

“Don’t think he was able to,” the older man answered. “He was fair knocked silly by the blast. He should have waited for the ambulance. Moving him right away was a damned foolish thing to do. He could have had internal injuries.”

“The other man,” Cowley probed carefully. “Would you say that he was worried or concerned for the injured man?” Although Bodie fitted the description given by the two, it didn’t mean it was him. Perhaps someone else had Doyle.

The older man thought for a minute. “He felt him for injury, but no, I wouldn’t say he was particularly concerned. Otherwise he would have waited for the authorities wouldn’t he? More like he wanted to leave before the police came.”

“He called the other man, Doyle,” the librarian interrupted. “I heard him. But he didn’t sound like they were friends, if that’s what you are asking.”

Cowley was growing more and more perplexed by the answers he was receiving. He knew Bodie, knew that Bodie’s only weakness was his partner. If Doyle was hurt, Bodie would have moved heaven and earth to get him to a hospital. So if it wasn’t Bodie, who was it? Who had put that chain around Doyle’s neck and why? And what in God’s name was he doing in a library with a bomb. 

_Och laddie, what have you got yourself into this time?_ Cowley shook his head unable to make anything of the situation other than Doyle was clearly in trouble. But, then where was Bodie? “Do you remember seeing them come in to the library?”

The librarian shook her head. “I was in the office.”

The old man nodded. “I saw one come in. The shorthaired man. It was around a quarter to twelve. I didn’t see the other one at all.”

“The alarm went off at five minutes to twelve,” the librarian sniffed, shock finally taking its toll. “I don’t know who set it off, but whoever it was saved us all.”

Cowley looked up as a large man in a suit approached. His face was red and sweaty, his hands black, but he nodded cordially to the CI5 chief. “Len Rawlins, sir, won’t shake, been helping the lab boys.”

Cowley smiled briefly. “I’d like to get these two witnesses somewhere comfortable, have them look at some photos.”

 

  
***********

**Chapter 14**

 

Something wet slid a trail down Bodie’s cheek and he risked a glance in the rear vision mirror. Blood, seeping from a small cut in his scalp. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and thinned his lips, knowing it could have been much worse before glancing across at Doyle.

He was sitting awkwardly, back arched away from the upholstery and Bodie recalled the lacerated shirt. “You OK?”

Doyle opened his eyes and stared blankly at him. 

Bodie, belatedly remembering the effects of a close explosion on the eardrums raised his voice. “I said are you OK?”

Despite his groggy state Doyle cottoned on quickly, raising his own rasping voice in reply. “Yeah. You?”

“Had worse,” Bodie replied laconically. He nodded to the windscreen. “Any place in particular you want to go?”

Doyle gave a little shake and turned his head, taking in the scene outside the window. He recognised the landmarks, knew where they were. He had an idea. “Take the next right turn.”

Bodie looked around and arched a brow. “Not to any police station, Doyle. Not ready for that yet.”

“I figured that,” Doyle hissed through his teeth and teetered forward, away from the upholstery. “Next right again.”

The streets began to look vaguely recognisable as Doyle guided him and Bodie finally pulled up at outside a smart set of ground floor flats, quite modern and each with its own access into the cul de sac, shielded for privacy from the footpath by a small brick wall and a hedge. He gazed at them silently and Doyle raised an eyebrow. “Look familiar, does it?”

Bodie glanced at him sourly. “Better not be some sort of trick, Doyle.”

He alighted from the car and came to the passenger door as Doyle very carefully swung his legs around. The chain dropped to clank noisily at his feet and Bodie bent to pick it up. He coiled it in his hands out of Doyle’s way, careful not to tug on the already abused throat. Doyle looked singularly pitiful and Bodie’s lips twitched, a bit of devil may care surfacing.

“Come on, Fido,” he coaxed, clicking his tongue. Doyle shot him a look that would have stripped paint off cement and used the doorframe to extract himself, feeling pins and needles all over his back. Bodie without being asked gave him a hand, privately concerned. He suspected Doyle might have a lingering concussion if his current wobbly state was anything to go by.

They halted at the locked door of number seven and Bodie glanced across to his companion, waiting. Doyle leaned tiredly against the wall. “Use your key, Bodie.”

Bodie shot him a suspicious look.

“In your front pocket, you always put it there.”

He pulled out the key, the plain unadorned house key and looked at it, then he looked back at Doyle. 

“No tricks, Bodie. It’s your place.”

Bodie turned, hesitating and inserted the key. He twisted his wrist and it clicked open. Doyle, impatient and hurting, pushed past him and switched off the alarms himself. It seemed months since he had last stood here, wondering where Bodie was. Right at this minute, he felt no closer to finding him. 

Bodie followed him in, looking around curiously, nervous at what he’d find, still only half believing Doyle. It was neat, tidy, tastefully decorated. The sort of place Bodie often dreamed of having. There were minimal decorations, soft lamps, an expensive hi-fi, but nothing personal at all. Except for one small photo, tucked away almost out of sight on the shelving above the hi-fi. Bodie walked over to it, half aware of the jingling of the chain behind him, as Doyle moved familiarly around the room.

He picked up the small frame and found himself looking at a regiment photo. Black and white, there were about twenty men neatly in camouflage, all lined up formally. It was almost impossible to make out faces, it was too small, but the man at the back, third from the left. Bodie squinted and suddenly had a flash of blackness, the roaring of an aircraft, and falling, falling through that blackness, the wind and rain icy on his face, screaming past his ears, hands fumbling at the harness fastened to his back, looking for the cord and a great ghostly canopy above him. 

“…4.5… put out a red alert for two more bombs, St Luke’s Hospital and Christian Brothers School, Priority…”

Doyle’s voice gradually penetrated, blasting the flashback to smithereens. Instinctively, Bodie spun around, dropping the frame back on the shelf and in three strides had reached Doyle, one powerful hand clamped down on the phone receiver and the other spinning the startled CI5 man around, and pinning him to the wall.

Doyle arched his back hissing, his face blanching alarmingly. Murderous midnight blue eyes glared at him and pushed beyond endurance Doyle retaliated instantly, swinging his fist up, all the fear and frustration and fury at his two days confinement contained in the force of that blow and it caught Bodie right on the chin. Bodie sprawled backwards and Doyle stood there breathing hard, anger coursing through that wiry frame, eyes narrowed and fierce. “That’s for leaving me tied to that bloody post for so long.”

Bodie very nearly smiled. Oh yeah, that temper, it was there all right and inexplicably he knew that Doyle was prone to it. Those sudden flare ups, out of nowhere, though in this case quite justifiable. He looked a mess and Bodie could see the smear of blood across the wall behind him. He softened slightly. “Your back’s bleeding.”

“Eh?” Doyle frowned, thrown by the sudden change of topic, the swift defusing of the fight he was itching for.

“Your shirt’s ruined as well, take it off and I’ll see to your back.”

“My back,” Doyle repeated dazedly. But even as he said it he could feel his back prickling, the cotton catching across his skin like a thousand piercing needles and it suddenly felt constricting, tight. He hauled the ruined shirt from his shoulders, savagely scrunched it up and threw it across the room. His temper was still high and his eyes flashed as he lashed out. “Christ, my back’s the least of my worries, I need to call in, warn them.” He bent to pick up the phone where it had fallen off the table, a faint beeping noise echoing from the handset but the floor suddenly moved sideways and he stopped immediately, surprised to feel a trembling in his limbs. His head swam giddily.

Bodie, observant enough to notice the light-headedness, stepped between Doyle and the phone and took his arm warily. That Doyle didn’t shake him off confirmed his initial guess of slight concussion, that and the fact that he knew Doyle had barely eaten anything for the past two days and was plainly running on empty.

Doyle stubbornly twisted again towards the phone, eyes glazing and his face, if possible, leeched even more colour. Bodie quickly supported him before he dropped and without any idea how he’d got there, Doyle found himself lying facedown on Bodie's bed, shivering and exhausted. His head was still swimming and his stomach rolled emptily. He could hear faintly, Bodie prowling the apartment, doors opening and closing and was baffled as to what he was looking for. Or what he’d find. Doyle was very conscious of Bodie’s ID, still in his jacket, in Doyle’s car, wherever that was now. Was there anything here? Anything that would give his sceptical partner proof? He couldn’t think and he gave up trying, laying his head down instead, wanting nothing more than to sleep. 

Nausea threatened and he closed his eyes briefly, fighting his stomach, the darkness behind closed lids soothing. He opened them again as he felt the bed depress and twisted to look over his shoulder. Bodie was sitting next to him, close enough for Doyle to feel his warmth next to his cold skin and he had a small white box in his hands. It was stamped with a Pan Am insignia and Doyle nearly snorted with amusement. Bodie and his air hostesses. Head still swirling, he let his face rest against his forearms, immensely tired, prepared to let Bodie do as he would. 

Bodie gravely considered the man lying in front of him, uncharacteristically passive, waiting. He felt rather startled at the CI5 agent’s open trust in him and was intuitive enough to know it wasn’t a trust undeservedly given. He searched for the source of that trust, but his mind unsurprisingly, refused to cooperate and Bodie, still suspicious, still not quite believing, could not find it in himself to trust back. A lone wolf, always. And yet Doyle featured prominently in the small jigsaw pieces that were slowly slotting into his empty memory. Doyle must mean something to him; he had to, as nothing else would explain why he went against all his better judgement around the man. He stared at the broad shoulders in front of him, golden skinned and streaked with blood. And scars. A couple of them, round like bullets. And another, straight - a surgeon’s mark. He touched the scars gently and short sharp images punctuated the greyness in his mind. An ambulance. An operating theatre. A green shrouded body forced back from the dead. 

_Shock him again!_

Immense fear, bottled and contained. And blood, bright red blood on a white T-shirt. 

Despite the chill of the room, a fine layer of perspiration cooled Bodie’s skin as the intense images faded away and he breathed evenly and slowly until the room came back into focus, but the fear remained, faint now but still there. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted that memory back.

He opened the first aid box he’d found in the bathroom cabinet but his mind flitted restlessly, trying to dredge up something, anything - but all tangible evidence still remained elusively out of reach. Instead, his sub-conscious traitorously supplied the images he didn’t want, the ones that haunted his dreams. Of him desperate to ascend a staircase to a window, a staircase he knew he couldn’t climb in time. In time for what? Again Bodie had a feeling it wasn’t a dream, more of a memory.

Doyle shifted restlessly on the bed, and Bodie returned his attention to him. His back was a mess, bleeding from numerous small cuts caused by the flying glass, all embedded in his skin, all leaking thin rivulets of blood. Bodie grimaced. He should have dumped him at the nearest casualty and then belatedly wondered if it still might not be a better idea. His first aid was rudimentary at best and some of the cuts looked quite deep. Armed with a towel and a pair of tweezers he began the laborious task of removing the many small pieces of embedded glass from Doyle’s skin. The linen shirt had been no protection at all and Bodie was glad he’d been wearing Connolly’s thick jacket, thus escaping the same injuries. 

He trailed gentle fingertips over Doyle’s broad shoulders, feeling the muscles tense as they encountered sharp splinters, whereupon Bodie would swap his fingers for the tweezers to pluck them out one by one. The small dish began to fill with bloody bits of shrapnel and Doyle was rigid and gritting his teeth by the time Bodie had worked his way down to the waistband of his snug jeans. One or two required prodding with a needle and his patient swore lengthily and inventively, giving Bodie yet another murky memory. Of Doyle leaning against a kitchen wall, sweating and grimy and ill with pain, calling him names, berating him for taking so long 

Bodie stilled for a minute as the image faded. Relief. They’d both been relieved, he got that impression quite clearly. Under his hands Doyle shifted again, and Bodie resumed his doctoring, musing on these randomly retrieved images. He touched his fingers lightly over Doyle’s back, in a last attempt to find any splinters he may have missed, leaving bloody smears in the golden skin, reminiscent of a child’s finger painting, but if there were more, they were beyond his skill. He wiped his fingers on the towel and turned his attention to Doyle’s hair, running his fingers through the soft curls, removing more glass shards but his scalp seemed relatively undamaged, cushioned no doubt by his thick untidy mane. Likewise Doyle’s jeans had protected most of his legs, although they were ripped in several places, skin gleaming palely, but unmarked beneath the denim.

Doyle had relaxed, quite spent, but Bodie looked at the Dettol he’d fished from the box and pursued his lips.

“Stay there,’ he told Doyle. “I haven’t finished.”

He wandered into the kitchen and found what he was looking for in a cupboard above the cooker. He opened the full bottle of whisky and poured a generous measure into two glasses. Then he came back to the bedroom and handed one to Doyle. Doyle leaned up on his elbows, eyes suspicious, still narky.

“Scotch,” Bodie said and smiled. “Pure Malt.” He hesitated. “Someone…?”

Doyle’s eyes widened in surprise, “You remember.”

Bodie shook his head, “No. Bits. Like a dream.”

Doyle snorted and took the glass to swallow a healthy mouthful. Bodie put his own on the floor and waited until Doyle had eased himself back down, before pouring the Dettol straight from the bottle on to his companion’s lacerated back. The result was electric. Doyle reared up, roaring and Bodie hurriedly pushed him back down, leaning heavily against the wriggling, squirming body to allow the antiseptic to clean and disinfect the cuts. Sweat broke out across Doyle’s skin and he closed his eyes, teeth biting into his lip, tasting blood. Bodie held on determinedly until the arched body again collapsed before picking up the cloth and blotting the lacerations clean. He rummaged around for plasters and pulled out a full box. 

“Some may need stitching,” he warned, but Doyle ignored him, head back down against his arms, breathing heavily and quivering like a highly strung racehorse. The curve of his cheek, which was all that could be seen of his face had gone absolutely ashen and Bodie belatedly reflected that it might not have been a wise thing to do to a man with an empty stomach. He applied sticking plasters to the cuts that were still bleeding until Doyle’s back looked like a game of noughts and crosses. 

“Done,” he said and picked up his own scotch, swallowing it in one go. He suddenly felt as bad as Doyle looked.

After a few minutes Doyle took a shuddering breath and pushed himself upright on unsteady arms. Bodie moved away, allowing him to sit up. The chain rattled noisily as Doyle swung his legs around but his balance still wasn’t good and he waited, breathing evenly, willing the giddiness to pass. The weight around his throat felt choking and he brought his hands up to the chain, digging his fingers in, wanting it gone. Bodie watched him quietly. Doyle looked up and gazed steadily at his partner.

“Now what? We going to sit here and let those other bombs go off? Let all those people die?”

Bodie still had a faint ringing in his ears, but he heard the challenge, croaky voice notwithstanding. He didn’t answer, his eyes steady on the dishevelled man opposite him, amazed again at how easily he could read the expressions that fitted across his face. Doyle was derisive, lip curling in a sneer.

“You going to go back? To the Spaniard? Finish the job.”

Bodie stood up abruptly and went automatically to the window, feeling hounded. The bump on his head started up again, throbbing insistently.

“Help kill children, sick people. That’s real brave, Bodie.”

Bodie swung around incensed. “If I start a job I finish it, it’s how I work.”

Doyle stood up too and Bodie was unsurprised to see fury there, a fury that more than matched his own. “You already have a job, and that job is to protect children and sick people. You haven’t finished that job. Which makes this one null and void.”

“I don’t remember it.”

“Doesn’t make it not true.” Doyle tugged at the chain again and his face was still white. He moved to the bedside phone, forgetting that the one in the living room was on the floor, off the hook. “Well you can commit murder if you think that’s all you’re good for, Bodie, but I’m not. I’m calling in, then I’m going to stop it.”

“No.”

Doyle stared at him, warned by that flat denial, but rebelliously standing his ground. “I’m letting them know about the Spaniard.”

Bodie shook his head and reached past Doyle for the phone, but Doyle knocked his hand away. Bodie, surprised at Doyle’s speed, reached with the other and Doyle blocked that one too. Bodie began to see why Connolly had said CI5 were dangerous. Hadn’t this man proved it time and time again? Was still proving it, in spite of his condition and his deceptive boyish looks. Yet his face was hard now, hard and angry and determined as he cradled the phone and lifted the receiver.

“You’re not phoning anyone,” Bodie told him, just as determinedly and reached again for the instrument.

“Then why the hell did you come back for me?” Doyle yelled, temper finally exploding, voice cracking. “Why not leave me there, if you didn’t want to stop this?”

Bodie paused warily. Doyle mad was a Doyle that needed handling very carefully. Bodie didn’t know who had told him that but looking at him now, he had no hesitation accepting it. And the stubborn bugger was still going to ring in no matter what Bodie said or did. And the police would get involved and Bodie would be hauled off to the nick - his reward for preventing Doyle being blown into a million pieces. A jail cell and a see you later. Moralistic bastard.

“Never took you for a coward, Bodie.” Doyle was livid and disgust was ripe in his voice. “Or a murderer. But that’s what you were, eh?”

The accusation hit and it hit hard and Bodie flinched at the vehemence of it. Glaring at Doyle, his slow fuse well and truly ignited, he leaned down and deliberately ripped the flex from the wall. Doyle’s head shot up like an avenging angel and for the second time Bodie underestimated his speed, the fist catching him on the side of the head. He went down on one knee, almost not dodging the accompanying kick in time, but Doyle followed through instantly with another blow and he only just avoided that one as well. Christ! Bloody scrappy dirty fighter. 

It was as if Doyle could second-guess him, outmanoeuvring Bodie’s attempts to regain his feet. And yet, trying to defend himself, he knew – knew Doyle was pulling his punches and for some reason, that made him even angrier. That this man could know him so well.

But Bodie had one unfair advantage and in his rage didn’t stop to consider the consequences of it. He lunged forward, snagged a hold of the trailing chain and pulled sharply. With a painful cry, Doyle immediately dropped to his knees, hands scrabbling up to his neck gasping for air. Bodie twisted the chain cruelly, hauled Doyle backwards against his chest and held on, judging the timing carefully, uncomfortably reminded of Felipe doing the exact same thing and resolutely pushing it from his mind. He wasn’t Felipe. He wasn’t the Spaniard either, and he wasn’t a murdering coward. The wiry body in his arms fought for air, desperately clawing at the chain, but he held on, sensitive to the minute changes, the weakening attempts to struggle, to breathe.

And when Doyle finally slumped, bonelessly against him, Bodie very gently laid him down on the carpet, turned him on his side, checked his airways, and made sure he was breathing OK. He got to his feet and hesitated, the persistent ill feeling and worry nagging at him, the urge to protect Doyle flaring up all over again. Well at least this way he’d be out of harm’s way, and Bodie could do what needed to be done without these unwanted emotions surfacing at inconvenient moments, which they would if Doyle was right and they really were partners. Partners? Him a CI5 agent? Jesus, it was too much, he couldn’t get his head around it, regardless of the returning bits of memory suggesting otherwise. He glanced down again confused, weary.

Doyle lay still, relaxed, wide eyes closed, full lips slightly parted, bare shoulders golden in the afternoon light from the window. Bruised and battered. Now that his temper was abating he had a thought that no way would Doyle have gone down so easily if he hadn’t already been half concussed from the blast, and weak from lack of food. Bodie felt unaccountably guilty, another damn emotion that seemed connected to this CI5 agent and it was strong enough to heat his cooling temper back up to boiling. 

Swearing irritably, he pulled a blanket from the bed and tossed it over the unconscious man against the chill of the room, before glancing at his watch, which miraculously had escaped damage from the bomb. If he were going to do what he had to do and meet the Spaniard on time, he’d have to move it. He didn’t give a thought to the locks or alarms as he left by the front door.

 

**************  
 **Chapter 15**

 

Murphy kept one hand on the wheel while the other reached for the flashing RT. “6.2.”

“Alpha.” Cowley’s voice, curt and to the point. “3.7’s alarms have been switched off. Get yourself over there on the double and check it out.”

Murphy frowned. “Have you called?”

“The phone’s permanently engaged, it could be off the hook. Be alert for trouble. I’ll contact you as soon as I get a positive ID on who was with Doyle at the bomb blast. Keep me informed, 6.2. Out.”

Murphy obediently turned the wheel and set a course for the smart neighbourhood where Bodie’s flat was, mind racing. If the alarm had been deactivated, it would have to have been Bodie, he was the only one supposed to know the codes, although he suspected Doyle knew them as well. Murphy shook his head and hoped to God Bodie hadn’t just been off convalescing with a willing bird, unaware that his partner was up to his neck in trouble, but then Murphy dismissed that almost immediately. Bodie had a sixth sense where Doyle was concerned and their unnatural ability to second-guess each other was both mystifying and fascinating to the rest of the squad. Cowley had thought they were together but the conflicting reports they’d received from the witnesses to the bombing had now made that unlikely. Murphy wasn’t at all happy to be the one to impart the news about Doyle to his partner, although Bodie couldn’t… shouldn’t be surprised. Not when Doyle’s inquisitive nature made this sort of thing a regular occurrence.

He turned off Charing Cross Road and hit traffic, slowing down frustratingly. The RT beeped again. “6.2”

“Alpha. Communications received a brief phone call from 4.5 warning us of two more bombs. St Luke’s and Christian Brothers’ school. We’ve alerted the bomb squad and the Met.”

“Is 4.5 OK then?” Relief flooded him like a tide, not least because he could now impart good news to Bodie instead of bad. 

“The phone call was cut off abruptly,” Cowley said crisply. “Not long enough for a trace.”

Murphy didn’t answer for a minute, gritting his teeth. “So we still don’t know where he is or what’s happened to him.”

“No,” Cowley paused as well.

“Should I tell 3.7?”

Another pause and Murphy waited, wondering what his boss was thinking. 

“I suspect 3.7 may already know. Alpha out.”

It was a good thirty minutes before Murphy was able to break out of the traffic congestion and take a number of shortcuts, finally arriving outside Bodie’s stylish flat. He waited in the car cautiously, looking around, but like before, the flat appeared empty, deserted, the cul de sac quiet during the working week. Murphy opened the car door and unfolded his length from the driver’s seat, still looking around conscientiously. Nothing moved except for a black cat, lazily sunning itself on the low brick wall lining the footpath. Murphy surreptitiously removed his Browning, pulled the slide and released it, then flicked the safety catch off. Warily he approached number seven.

The door stood ajar. That fact alone had Murphy on high alert, standing stock still listening, but it was silent, the only noise some squabbling sparrows in the hedge blocking the footpath. He moved to the door quickly, aligning himself up alongside the jamb, peering guardedly into the room. Nothing. Uneasy, Murphy followed the drill. Arms extended before him, gun in both hands, he crept stealthily into the flat, checking each room thoroughly. He stopped in the living room, the reddish smear on the wall and the bloodied torn shirt on the floor commanding his attention immediately. He eyed both edgily, adrenaline kicking in. In the bedroom he came to an abrupt stop. The telephone lay on the floor, the receiver off its cradle, the ripped flex trailing behind. Murphy moved silently around the edge of the bed towards it and a body came into view. Covered with a blanket and quite still. From his angle, Murphy could only see a mop of long curly hair and it was a dead giveaway.

“Doyle!” He was on his knees on the carpet in an instant, pulling away the blanket, the red smear on the wall and the bloodied shirt firing his imagination into expecting a bullet riddled corpse. His imagination was mercifully way off the mark. Doyle was half naked, lying on his side; eyes sealed shut, mouth slightly open. Murphy took him in with one glance. Rope burns on the thin wrists, the padlocked chain around his neck, the bruising and scratching accompanying it, but his skin was a good colour and his chest rose and fell regularly. 

Murphy was almost faint with relief. “Christ,” he muttered and put his hand on the bare shoulder, giving him a slight shake. “Doyle! Ray, can you hear me?”

The response wasn’t what he’d hoped for. A slight grimace, but Doyle didn’t wake. Murphy fumbled his RT from his pocket one handed. “Ray! Wake up, blimey, come on mate, snap out of it.”

A low moan and a slight fluttering of thick eyelashes rewarded his persistence. Murphy touched the chain lightly, seeing how tight it was. Bloody hell, the witnesses were right, who had done this to him? Doyle flopped groggily onto his back, immediately issued a sharp yelp, and hurriedly rolled back again, forcing sleepy greenish blue eyes open.

“Can you hear me, Ray?” Murphy waved his hand in front of Doyle’s eyes but there was barely any awareness there at all. “I’m calling an ambulance. Stay there, mate.”

He’d gained his feet before he heard it. Low, rasping, painful but the voice stopped him with a single word. “No.”

 

******************

 

Bodie drove, smooth, calm and controlled, half his awareness watching for police, knowing that by now the car most certainly would have been reported as stolen. Then again, he thought with a brief snort, the police had a lot more to do right at this moment than chase down a stolen vehicle. The Spaniard had seen to that. His mood was still sour, Ray Doyle’s words still shouting through his head. Murderer and coward. Bodie thinned his lips. He was neither and he’d prove it. He didn’t pause to wonder why he should, why Doyle’s opinion seemed to mean so much to him, but he wryly acknowledged that it did. 

He guided the car back towards the West End, towards the school, his fury at Doyle slicked ever so finely with worry. Doyle had been out for the count when he’d left, but he’d been breathing. Bodie was sure of his skill, knew he hadn’t seriously damaged the man, but what if his throat swelled around that chain that was so tight? He rubbed at his stubble wearily, deciding that if Doyle really were his partner, he’d have killed him a long time ago, infuriating little sod. The traffic began to build up and Bodie frowned, seeing police cars, all apparently heading in the same direction. He slowed down, redirected by a uniformed policeman from the street where the school was located. Bodie didn’t take a chance, not in a stolen car. Instead he found a car park down a side street and jogged easily back towards the school. It was crawling with police, army personnel and he recognised a bomb disposal unit. He grinned despite himself. Seems Doyle’s call had got through. 

He trotted back to the car, glancing at his watch. Much as he assumed the hospital would be the same, he decided to check anyway. Plenty of time to get back to the Spaniard, finish the job, get his pay and get the hell out. And no deaths on his conscience either. But even as thought it, the decision weighed heavily. Wrong.

 

*****************

 

His throat felt like sandpaper. That was his first thought as urgency prodded him into waking. That and the fact that the sheet had somehow tangled around his neck, choking him. Doyle came awake and very nearly wished he hadn’t. His back was on fire and the constriction around his throat tightened. The voice that had woken him penetrated and he found the name to go with it. Murphy. He frowned. What was Murphy doing here and where was Bodie? He rolled onto his back, and the resultant razor blades slicing across bare skin had him twisting hastily back again. Recent events clamoured for attention, jostling for priority in his groggy state, but first and foremost was Bodie.

He’d made a fatal error with his partner. He could see that now. Lulled into his usual interaction with his oppo he had let his guard down and paid for it dearly. Venting his frustration had damned near got him strangled and now Bodie had gone. Leaving him here, snug on the floor. Doyle twitched, thoughts flickering helter skelter fashion through his brain. Snug and warm on the carpet under a blanket, safely out of harm’s way. Now that really sounded like a murdering mercenary, didn’t it? His heart lightened immediately. Bodie might not remember him, but it was plain his subconscious wouldn’t allow him to really harm him. And he hadn’t, Bodie was far too much a professional to misjudge a stunt like that. In fact most of his aches and pains could be put squarely down to the Spaniard and his brother, and this bloody chain, not Bodie. 

He felt movement again and forced his eyes open. He saw Murphy, gun out, concerned eyes staring at him. And heard one word. Ambulance. 

No!

Murphy spun around and saw Doyle struggling to sit up. He moved back to assist him, not liking the purple blue bruising around Doyle’s neck, nor the one spreading across his rib cage. “Come on, Doyle, you need a hospital.”

“What I need, Murph,” Doyle rasped with exaggerated patience. “Is to get this bloody chain off my neck before it kills me. Where are your lock picks?”

Murphy gazed at him silently for a minute, before delving his hand into a pocket, re-emerging with a set of steel skeleton keys. He placed his gun and the RT on the carpet and got to work, watching his teammate anxiously, not entirely sure that Doyle was properly in the here and now. Doyle leaned, arched peculiarly away from the wall, his expressive eyes closed and smudged with shadows. His tongue came out frequently to touch at a swollen bruised part of his full lower lip and Murphy squinted, distracted from his task. It looked suspiciously like teeth marks, like someone or something had bitten him there.

“What the hell happened?” he burst out. “Who chained you, Ray? And where’s Bodie?”

Those easy to read eyes slowly opened, focussed on his face and Murphy clicked his tongue, muttering, “Bodie’s going to have a fit when he sees you.”

To his utter amazement, Doyle laughed. But it held none of Doyle’s usual cheer, instead sounding bitter and ironic. 

“Ray, what’s going on?” There was a faint click and the padlock sprang open and Murphy gently eased the chain from Doyle’s neck. Doyle gave a great sigh of relief and brought his hands up, massaging and rubbing at his throat, wincing. He got his feet under him and tried to stand and Murphy reached out to grab him hurriedly. Doyle came upright slowly, allowing Murphy’s support, sweating and dizzy.

“Christ, Ray, you need a hospital.”

“No,” Doyle said again, determinedly. He knew what he had to do. He had to stop Bodie, and it wouldn’t be accomplished by being in a hospital. Besides he wasn’t that badly hurt, not really. But he was starving. “I just need some food, Murph, I haven’t eaten for two days.”

Murphy bent down to scoop up his semi auto while Doyle turned for the door and only then did Murphy see his back, the inexpertly repaired damage; correlating it to the bloodied ruined shirt on the floor, the rope burns on his wrists and his mind graphically supplied possible causes, complete with unwanted images in vivid technicolour. His own temper flared. He caught up with Doyle and stopped him, both hands on Doyle’s bare shoulders. “What happened to your back?”

Doyle just looked at him hazily; face sheened and pale, eyes enormous and Murphy diagnosed light-headedness immediately. He quickly turned Doyle around and guided him gently from the bedroom and into a chair at the kitchen table. A two-day-old newspaper lay on the table, open at the Page Three spread, and Murphy pushed it aside. “I’ll fix you something to eat, you just stay there and tell me what happened.”

He went to the sink first, filling a glass with water and dumping it in front of Doyle with a couple of aspirin from the cupboard above the sink. Then he got bread and eggs and put the kettle on, moving efficiently around the small kitchen, knowing where Bodie kept everything from their occasional poker nights. He supposed he was lucky Bodie had any food in at all, then remembered that he’d had a bird stay for a few days, some Italian piece – she would have been likely to stock him up. 

“Well?” Murphy demanded, cracking eggs into a frying pan, impatient with Doyle’s silence. “What happened?” 

He half turned to glare over his shoulder but saw that Doyle’s attention had shifted to the Page Three spread on the crumpled newspaper. Murphy paused surprised, then realised that it wasn’t the petite blonde in the picture that Doyle was staring at so intently, rather it was the small article underneath it. Focussed, absorbed, eyes sharp with purpose, Murphy could almost hear his colleague’s thoughts clicking over at their usual swift pace. The silence stretched and knowing Doyle as he did, he resigned himself to the improbability of getting a straight answer. Not if it concerned the missing Bodie anyway.

“What’s the time?” Doyle asked abruptly, his voice a little stronger, although his hands kept straying to his neck, as though he could feel the collar still there, still locked around his throat.

Murphy glanced at his watch, “Nearly three.”

He placed a plate of toast and eggs before Doyle and turned to the kettle. Doyle picked up the supplied cutlery and started to eat, as if he was a man starved. Murphy made him hot sweet tea and a coffee for himself and sat down opposite, watching him with open concern. “Where is Bodie?”

Doyle looked warily up at him, chewing slowly, mindful of his lip. He put down his knife and reached for the cup, sipping slowly and wincing as the food, helped by the liquid slid down his throat. “Undercover,” he finally answered. “And he’s going to need some help.”

 

****************

Half empty coffee cups sat on the desk, alongside an ashtray filled with butts and a policewoman stood in the corner, trying valiantly not to yawn. George Cowley watched his witnesses slowly turn the pages of the books, the countless black and white mug shots flicking past under their restlessly moving eyes. He rubbed thoughtfully at his chin, disgruntled as page after page of IRA sympathisers were glanced at, and immediately discarded. Behind him the door opened and Lucas stuck his face in. Cowley turned to look over his shoulder, saw Lucas tilt his head fractionally, and silently followed his young agent through the door to the small office. Lucas held out an envelope and Cowley opened it to reveal two large black and white photos. He smiled briefly remembering the first time he had seen them, how different he had thought they were. Like chalk and cheese and it wryly crossed his mind that, that hadn’t changed noticeably. He pushed the photos back in the envelope. “Has 6.2 checked in yet?”

“Not as yet, sir.”

Cowley glanced at his watch. “Give him another ten minutes and then try to rouse him.”

“One more thing, sir.” Lucas stopped him, as Cowley moved to return to the small room and its volumes of photos. “An anonymous call came in to the Met. Gave the precise locations of the bombs in the hospital and the school. The bomb squad are checking it out.”

“Anonymous?” Cowley looked up. “Is it on tape?”

“Yes sir, they’ve hooked it up to the phone. Male, young, English - not long enough for a trace. I think you should have a listen.”

Curious Cowley moved to the desk and picked up the receiver. “Cowley. Yes, I’m listening, start it now.”

The words were succinct, abrupt and quick. But Cowley couldn’t have been more surprised had it been the Prime Minister on the other end of the line. “Play it again,” he commanded sharply. His eyes narrowed as he listened again. He looked up at Lucas and Lucas nodded his fair head solemnly. “I thought the same thing. Only why would Bodie be giving an anonymous tip off to bomb locations?”

Vivian McAllister, the librarian and her elderly companion, Ted Burrows, froze the minute the two photos were placed over the top of the pages they were about to turn.

“That’s them,” Vivian said in relief. “Both of them.”

“Aye that’s the young uns all right,” Burrows confirmed, leaning back, glad to be finally finished. “This one had the chain around his neck.” And he stabbed a blunt forefinger onto Doyle’s curly headed image.

Lucas, standing at his chief’s shoulder, raised his brows in puzzlement. Cowley looked down at the two photos, one impishly appealing, the other dark and brooding, annoyed that for every question answered, a dozen more popped up. What the devil were those two up to? So help him, he’d have them on desk duties for a year.

 

*************

 

Bodie parked the Cortina a significant distance away from the river and was waiting by the chained fence when the Spaniard pulled up. Carlos alighted from the car and looked him up and down. “Where is Connolly?”

Bodie jerked his head up to the empty warehouse. “Up there, waiting.”

The Spaniard paused, eyes penetrating, and Bodie was suddenly aware of his dishevelled state, Doyle’s blood on his sleeve, the drying cut on his temple.

“Where have you been?” the Spaniard asked icily. 

Bodie glared at him. “Got bored, angsty, needed a woman didn’t I?”

“You have been in a fight?”

“Yeah, well her boyfriend objected.” Bodie shrugged as if it was of little importance.

“I told you to stay here.”

“So you did.” Their eyes met and locked, dark blue against black. 

The Spaniard smiled, but there was no warmth in that smile. “You have not changed at all, amigo. Come, it is time you earned your money.”

Bodie followed him to the car and got in the passenger seat. Connolly appeared, hands shoved in his pockets. He gave Bodie a quick glance as he got into the rear seat and then resolutely looked out of the window as the Spaniard started the engine and rolled smoothly away from the old warehouse on the river Thames. 

The western sun was dropping towards the horizon and the sounds of sirens echoed through the city of London.

 

*********************

 

“Christ, Doyle, the Cow will have you if you don’t check in,” Murphy stated, still unhappy with Doyle’s appearance. He’d tried to talk him into going to hospital but Doyle had ignored him. Trying to find out who had tied him down and savaged his back produced the same result. Asking where they’d both been for the last forty-eight hours had those full lips tight as a clam. Murphy sighed as he gazed at the unpredictable agent next to him.

Wearing one of Bodie’s shirts that was slightly too big for him, fidgeting and shifting his shoulders constantly at the irritation against his back, Doyle explained yet again. “We’ll blow it for him.” He exhaled irritably, “Cowley’s got enough to worry about with those bombs.” 

He didn’t look at Murphy, didn’t like lying to the other operative but nor did he want to land Bodie in it either. Not until he had at least another go at his memory. Knowing Bodie, he was quite sure that his partner was stubbornly disregarding the random bits of memory he was retrieving and Doyle was equally convinced that if he kept prodding, it would come back fully. But if Bodie went through with this robbery, it could well end his future in CI5 and Doyle was determined to prevent that at all costs. “You can call for back up once we make sure they arrive, otherwise we’ll have nothing on them and Bodie’s cover will be blown.” He turned finally to look at the taller agent, bestowing one of his angelic smiles. “Trust me.”

“Not bleeding likely,” Murphy muttered, but dutifully crouched in the shadows, watching, waiting. He had his RT ready to call in. 

The gallery was due to close in fifteen minutes and night was descending. Lights remained on though and Doyle was intelligent enough to know that an armoured van masquerading as a legitimate delivery would only be plausible if it arrived while staff were still in attendance. Which now had the added complication of innocent workers, not to mention the security guards employed to guard the valuable borrowed pieces. He worried at his bitten lip, his decision not to involve HQ now seeming unwise, but before he could change his mind the noise of a rumbling engine filtered down from the main road and presently headlights appeared, preceding an armoured van. He tensed up, felt Murphy do the same. They watched as it slowed up outside the gallery and Doyle saw the unmistakable figure of Turnbull in the driver’s seat lift the microphone of the two-way radio and speak into it.

“Now you can call in,” he told Murphy, straightening abruptly and very relieved that he had the right gallery after all, courtesy of the Page Three girl Bodie had been eyeing while eating his breakfast two days ago. Turnbull seemed alone, and Doyle had no idea how the Spaniard was going to pull this off, but he had to do something to prevent it, to get Bodie back. 

“What are you going to do?” Murphy asked, straightening also.

“I’m going to absorb a bit of culture,” Doyle said cryptically. Lifting the spare 9mm from Murphy’s car, he jerked the slide, sending a bullet into the chamber. Catching sight of Murphy’s unhappy face he tilted his head, smiling as devilishly as Bodie ever could. “You take the driver. He’s in on this. I’m going in to team up with Bodie. When Cowley gets here seal off the area.”

Murphy gave him a baleful look but obediently trotted off to follow the security van before the steel grill closed, shutting him out. Doyle moved quickly over to the doors, carefully looking around, but there was still no sign of Bodie or the Spaniard. There were no parking spots either, so it was likely they were waiting out of sight somewhere, waiting for the agreed time to make their move. He was determined to be inside when that happened. 

The girl at the information counter glanced up at him and did a double take at his scruffy unshaven appearance. “We are closing in fifteen minutes, sir.”

“Then I have fifteen minutes, don’t I?” Doyle stated cheerfully, automatically switching on the charm. He glanced swiftly around and saw familiar long black hair at the far end of the gallery. Lola. 

Before the receptionist could protest further, he turned and trotted up the stairs to the second level, made a beeline for the gents and slipped quickly inside.

 

***************

 

Bodie hadn’t counted on staff still being on the premises. He held the assault rifle at the ready, mouth set and disapproving while Garcia tied the hands and ankles of the three women and four men who had been finishing up work when they’d arrived. The Spaniard, perhaps wisely, had banished his brother from the room before setting Garcia to the task.

It had been ridiculously easy to take over the gallery. The Spaniard had merely sent Lola and Garcia in earlier pretending to be tourists and they’d wandered around blissfully, seemingly ignorant of the closing chimes and the calls of the guard at the door that it was time. Once the gallery had emptied, Garcia had pulled his weapon on the girl at the information desk. Timed to perfection, the Spaniard had entered the front doors at virtually the same instant and the guards were quickly disarmed by the efficient skills of his team. A third guard had been more alert and was in the act of reaching for his gun when the Spaniard put a bullet into the floor at his feet. Discretion was the better part of valour and he made no further moves. All planned and meticulously carried out. Bodie had expected no less. Juan Carlos planned for everything. All they needed to do now was to remove the paintings.

The Spaniard returned from the monitor room where he had unlocked the dock doors for Turnbull and gestured with his own gun to Bodie. “You will stand guard here while Felipe and I move the paintings.” He turned and added a few more words to Garcia in Spanish, and the smaller man rose swiftly and went out ahead of Bodie, trotting off to the other end of the gallery to take up position. 

Bodie hesitated, glancing at the scared faces of the people sitting down against the wall, hating the Spaniard, Felipe, and this whole damn job with a passion. Doyle’s vehemence rang in his ears again and he silently thanked God for the one small consolation to this whole mess - Doyle didn’t know the name of the gallery and was safely out of the way. 

He stepped out to the doorway of the office and gazed down the dimly lit room. Paintings hung on the walls, illuminated cleverly by small hidden globes. Art was art; Bodie for the life of him couldn’t see what all the fuss was about and even less why someone would go to all this trouble to steal them. Unless Doyle had been right and it was politically motivated.

At the far end of the long room, a narrow staircase ascended steeply up to the next level where the valuable pieces were hung, each one appropriately alarmed with a connection straight to the Met. A glass door guarded the top of the stairs, lockable should the need arise although it was not locked tonight. Bodie looked up, the staircase filling him with a disquieting sense of trepidation although he wasn’t sure what was causing it. Felipe wasn’t in sight and the Spaniard came out to move past him. Tense, wondering at the delay, the staircase drew his eye again, a sense of deja vu he couldn’t quite shake. 

“Where is Turnbull? He should be here now to help.” Carlos glanced at his watch. “The third bomb will keep our friends in the Met busy, but we still need to move quickly.” He moved off down the gallery towards the lower staircase and Garcia.

Bodie shrugged and stayed where he was. His eyes swept restlessly along the next level and he saw Felipe briefly before the man disappeared again among the open partitions. At least he was safely away from the rope bound men behind him.

Then he caught sight of a furtive movement by the amenities and froze, instantly recognising the dark curls, the lithe, graceful way the man moved. Doyle! Jesus Christ, Doyle, here? How the hell did he get here, how the hell had he known? 

Abruptly an alarm sounded and Bodie stiffened, knowing that the Met were busy elsewhere with the bombs and not likely to answer the summons but it still engaged a sense of mild panic, an urgency to escape. But what about Doyle? What was he doing? Did Felipe know Doyle was up there? More importantly did Doyle know Felipe was up there? 

Bodie recalled the volatile agent vowing to stop all this no matter what and uttered a soft but heartfelt curse at his insane stubbornness. Instantly tensing up, he eyed the Spaniard and Garcia, both more concerned with Turnbull’s absence than the alarms and Bodie knew instinctively that Doyle was responsible for it. He sighed quietly. Well, it was a rotten set up anyway and he may as well be in for a penny as in for a pound. The Spaniard and Garcia disappeared down through the door that led to the loading dock and Bodie was about to head off after them when a shot blasted the silence of the gallery. Behind him the staff members jumped, the women issuing small screams but he was no longer there.

 

*************

**Chapter 16**

George Cowley called in several agents, all instructed to get to the Tivoli Gallery with all due haste and hurried to his car fuming. Insubordinate…. Words failed him, as they often did when faced with the terrible twins. When it came to insubordination those two took the cake. Undercover! He snorted dismissively as he backed the Ford Granada from its parking space in front of HQ. Still it had to be something. Insubordinate or not, not even Doyle and Bodie would dare to pull a stunt like this without just cause. 

The bomb alerts had taken every available man to the areas named as potential targets and Cowley was more than a little concerned as to why Bodie would give the completely accurate placement of the hospital and school bomb to the Met without checking in with him first. He was even more baffled when the bomb disposal expert had brought the devices to him.

“Duds, both of them,” he had told Cowley, sweating in his heavy protective suit. “They weren’t armed right, the timers weren’t connected.”

“Both?” Cowley asked surprised.

The expert had nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. One maybe, but two? After the library one went off? He either didn’t know what he was doing or he got cold feet.”

Cowley had a good handle on his agents, knew them very well, their little quirks and habits and the way they released tension. But he would swear that Bodie wouldn’t be involved in bomb making regardless of how undercover he might consider himself to be.

He turned the wheel of the car thoughtfully, thinking on Murphy’s garbled message. He was with Doyle, attempting to prevent a political motivated theft at the Tivoli Gallery and needed urgent back up. Cowley resigned himself to Doyle corrupting Murphy to insubordination, but he was still going to have words with them over it. No matter how necessary it was at the time. He set a course for the gallery musing on a suitable punishment. Maybe a term watching for Russian boats off the coast of Scotland might get the message across. In winter.

 

**************

 

Bodie was flying, half way down the room before he was even aware that he had moved. The staircase loomed in front of him, somehow seeming further away than when he had started. Another burst of gunfire, this time from an assault rifle. Felipe had an assault rifle. Bodie had no idea whether Doyle was armed or not, but that first single shot had indicated a handgun. Panic seized him, and gripped him tight, squeezing like a giant hand and he didn’t know why

His legs felt heavy, leaden and he finally reached the stairs, taking them three at a time, but they seemed to shrink away from him, the door at the top agonisingly out of reach and Bodie’s breath panted in his throat and his head throbbed to painful proportions. His dream! It was his dream! The staircase, twisting to the heavens, the glassed door at the top and the crippling fear gripping him. He was awake in his nightmare. 

Pounding up the stairs, heart in his throat, the dream and reality frighteningly entwined, he finally reached the top - and it was there that he totally lost what was real and what wasn’t. Caught in the grip of his waking nightmare he could only see the glass door and the knowledge that he had to get inside, help whoever was in there. But now that he’d finally arrived, he was reluctant to do so, unprepared to face what he suspected he might see. The relentless urgency hammering at him, he used his weapon to push the door open and saw shards of glass, dirt and plants, an overturned telephone. His heart was pounding so loud he didn’t know how it didn’t just burst right out of his chest, yet he appeared outwardly calm. Until he saw a long denim encased leg, curls tumbling across wide unseeing eyes, a face utterly colourless. And he saw a spreading bloodstain, shockingly vibrant against white carpet. 

Doyle! Dying on the floor, blood pumping from his chest. It was Doyle in that room, Doyle, the whole time - and he hadn’t been there. He’d nearly lost him!

The room roared in his ears and Bodie clutched frantically at the doorframe as his vision closed claustrophobically around him. And the locked doors to his last half dozen or so years burst wide open as images assaulted him unmercifully, rushing through a shadowy tunnel, faster and faster - swirling out of suffocating darkness and unerringly finding their allotted places in his impaired memory in a overwhelming kaleidoscope of colour and emotion. 

Sirens and flashing lights, Doyle’s eyes, wide, heavy lidded, full lips tinged blue. The operating table, his punctured body jerking in response to the paddles. _We’re losing him!_

NO! Bodie gripped the doorframe harder, the wood glossy and cool under his clutching fingers. NO! Not Ray!

Revenge flaring… Mayli in his arms …. Claire….the restaurant….Ojuka… Mickey Hamilton…Jack Stone… Murphy hanging inverted in a climbing rig. Jax, McCabe, Lucas; all of them flying past in a blur of recognition. A tangle of undergrowth, broken motorbikes. Krivas, Julia, the river, his hands on fire, Doyle pounding up the stairs, gun spouting. A bowling alley, Doyle’s urchin face, alight with glee at a strike. Running…. running with a weight on his chest and Doyle haring after him, tackling him, ripping the weight away, the explosion knocking them both flat. Glass shattering, Doyle, lying bound on the patterned rug. He remembered rushing in and slicing ropes from his wrists with a knife. Ulrike, Meredith, Kodai… Marikka, lifeless on the dirty concrete… Jesus… Marikka. 

Cowley! Rousing at him, berating him, Doyle slouching against the filing cabinet, smirking…. the taste of scotch on his lips

Christ! Bodie moaned as it all came flooding back, faster and faster, mere punctuations now, short and sharp. Barry Martin, the sharp agony of a knife embedded in his shoulder, Penny, smooth skin and long legs, hot and eager under him and Doyle, ringing the doorbell knowing… vindictively knowing he was interrupting. And further back, Marty, Brownie and the awful worry of a laser red dot seeking an unsuspecting leather clad back. A little girl, in the arms of a paedophile, and Doyle’s bullet smashing into his forehead. 

The flickering images attacked him relentlessly, people coming and going, good times and bad times, and Doyle the one constant in the deluge. Always there, always with him… _never far apart_.

And then, standing in front of Cowley’s desk, appalled to discover the skinny hot-headed copper beside him was now his partner.

His head spun and he thought he was going to pass out. 

Firing at dirty, jeans-clad youths, broken bombed streets, insults hurled in soft Irish tones. Rushing darkness, screaming wind, crawling through mud with other khaki-clad figures, marching in parade, the roar of an aircraft and all of a sudden there was Connolly. A younger fitter Connolly looking at him in some concern as a train pulled into a station.

_"A mercenary, Bodie, that’s all you’ll ever be. What any of us will ever be. Why do you fight it?”_

“There has to be something else better than this shit, Connolly, something more to life than just taking it day after day.”

“Lola and Felipe aren’t worth you chucking it in, mate.”

“Yeah? Then I’d hate to see what is.”

“What will you do?”

“Dunno, thinking of the army.”

A car revving behind him, speeding up.

_“Going home then, lad? I suppose we all do in the end…..”_

And Connolly had looked sideways and there was Doyle, flying towards him, feet scarcely touching the ground, and Bodie heard his name. His name yelled in warning, panic and a great deal of anguish.

**“BODIE!!!”**

Jerked abruptly back to the present, head still reeling, Bodie saw Doyle in a sprawl of blue denim, pressed up against a greeting desk, gun in hand and face more than matching the panic in his shout as he stared anxiously at his partner.

“What is this man to you, _mi hermoso_ , that you would free him against my brother’s orders?”

Swinging his head sharply, Bodie saw Felipe’s slow sadistic smile as he pressed his finger on the trigger of the SG 540. The big man stood against the wall, at the entrance to the upper gallery maze and his unbandaged eye was fixed on the point where Doyle would emerge, should he leave his cover.

Bodie looked at Doyle again, saw immediately by his position that the angle was all wrong for him to take out Felipe and Felipe knew it. So did Doyle and he was pinned down, no match for an assault rifle besides. Yet he could see the coiled tension in his partner’s body, knew Doyle was about to risk it, to come to his aid. Had already risked himself turning up here in the first place. 

And Bodie would have expected nothing less from his partner.

But Felipe’s attention had switched, along with his weapon, maliciously to Bodie. “I told you, _mi armor,_ that I would have him one way or another.”

“And I told you, you would have to get past me,” Bodie replied, vision finally sharpening, mind clearing, as those last pieces of missing memory swirled teasingly in his mind, before dropping with a final click where they belonged. 

He knew who he was, he knew who Doyle was and he glanced over at his partner as if seeing him for the first time, horribly aware as to what could have befallen his mate while he’d been off in la-la land.

Doyle stared at him, sensing something different, his initial panic at Bodie’s ashen face subsiding. For a minute he had thought Bodie was going to faint, he’d looked like he’d seen a ghost, colour draining like a sink, eyes haunted and panicked and frightened. But the way Bodie was looking at him now, all that deadpan indifference gone, his blue eyes intense and unwavering; Doyle caught a glimpse of something, a fierce emotion he rarely saw in his oh so cool partner. It was gone as swiftly as it appeared and as though aware of his slip, Bodie quickly altered his expression to smug casualness. 

Doyle frowned, suspicious and Bodie winked infuriatingly at him. “Don’t worry, sunshine, I won’t let him touch you.” He quirked an eyebrow and added annoyingly: “Unless you’d rather he did?”

Doyle glared furiously at him. “He’s not my type.”

Bodie swung his eyes back to Felipe and said, with vast insincerity, “There you go, you’re not his type. Put the gun down now. I think this has gone far enough, don’t you?” He half turned to Doyle who was still watching him, anxious and wary. “I gather you’ve got back up coming?”

Doyle gaped at him and Bodie smiled, genuinely this time, finally taking pity on his addled partner. After all he’d put him through a right time, hadn’t he? “It’s me, Ray, I’m back.”

“You!” Felipe’s face showed dawning outrage. “You and him – you were working with him. All this time?”

Bodie didn’t answer, just watched him cautiously, but there was a sudden staccato of footsteps and a crash from behind them as Garcia kicked the glass door open. He took in the scene with one glance, black eyes darting from person to person and quickly set his sights on Doyle, still helpless on the floor. He lifted his weapon, was squeezing the trigger when lightning fast, Bodie swung around with his own SG 540, the deadly volley taking Garcia right across the chest and flinging him backwards like a rag doll, landing in a bloody heap at the feet of the Spaniard who had followed him up the stairs to investigate the gunshots. Finely honed reflexes kicked in and Bodie flung himself against the edge of the doorway, glancing alertly around for Felipe, but in a burst of self-preservation, Felipe had disappeared, further into the partitions dividing this upper gallery. Bodie shot Doyle an intent look but his partner had already surged upright, going after Felipe.

The Spaniard had duplicated Bodie’s stance on the other side of the door. “Felipe!”

Bodie lifted his weapon, momentarily concerned for Doyle taking on the assault rifle with only a handgun, but then his attention was fully occupied with the Spaniard, who stepped back and peppered the door fame with a deafening round of bullets. Bodie, breathing steadily, dropped flat as bullets pinged through the plaster, spraying the opposite window, sending glass cascading into the street below. Then, ready to bolt upright again he heard a familiar Scottish voice from the street below and all hell broke loose, along with the front door as McCabe and Lucas kicked it in, guns snouting, bullets flying, pock marking the walls around the staircase.

The Spaniard spun around, finger on the trigger, spraying another volley of death as he realised he was trapped between two opposing forces. Knowing that Bodie had inexplicably changed sides and more worried about the assault rifle than the handguns, he gave an abrupt surge away from the doorway, his own weapon spasmodically firing another broadside into the doorway and surrounding walls, before taking off down the stairs again. Bodie cursed and scrambled out after him, but he’d been fast enough to reach the level below. McCabe and Lucas had already taken cover and now reappeared as Bodie came flying down after him. 

The Spaniard was running fast towards the opposite end and the emergency exit. Bodie calmly lifted the assault rifle, sent a barrage of bullets into the floor at the Spaniard’s feet. Carlos shuddered to a stop, back to his antagonist. Bodie hefted the rifle. McCabe ranged out alongside the wall, Lucas backed up the opposite side, both with their semi autos trained. “Throw it down, Carlos,” Bodie called out. “You’re outnumbered.”

The emergency exit opened at that moment and a figure came stumbling into view, silhouetted clearly in the light. The Spaniard very nearly let off a round and the figure screamed a warning in Spanish, halting him as he pulled the trigger. Lola. Carlos froze, aghast at what he’d nearly done. Jax followed Lola in, his gentle face hard and unyielding, a gun snug in her side. Her eyes sought him, frightened and defeated and Carlos had no doubt that the man holding her would use the weapon, whoever he was he meant business and Bodie was involved with them somehow, maybe even one of them.

“I told you Bodie was soft on the CI5 man,” Lola screamed at him. “Now his people have come for him. You should have listened to me.”

CI5? Christ if they were CI5, they didn’t play by the rules, there was no way he’d get out of this one alive. The Spaniard turned slowly to face Bodie. He had planned this operation from every conceivable viewpoint, had it meticulously mapped out to the last second. And he’d miscalculated on just one detail. His face was quite blank, but his eyes were deadly and his voice cutting. “Loyal to whoever is paying you, Bodie?”

“To the penny.” Bodie nodded towards the CI5 men around him, and his fingers tightened, ready to pull the trigger. “Drop the gun.”

They stared at each other silently and for a minute Bodie thought he was going to go down fighting. But Lola called out again and the Spaniard, with a disgusted exhalation, threw the SG 540 aside and lifted his hands in the air. Bodie kept his own weapon trained until Lucas had kicked his assault rifle across the tiled floor, out of reach and McCabe had done a quick search. He pulled some handcuffs and snapped them on and only then did Bodie lower his own rifle.

But a sudden burst of fire from the upper level had his head snapping back up. Christ! Doyle! 

He turned and was sprinting once more for the stairs.

 

*******************

 

Doyle’s breath was harsh in his throat as he held the semi auto with steady hands. The partitions were attractively arranged, like a maze, the expensive paintings in their own little pools of light, highlighted cleverly from the dim shadows. He pressed his back further into the wall behind him, lifted his gun so that the barrel lay alongside his cheek and edged to the corner ready to fire at a hint of movement, acutely aware of the assault rifle in Felipe’s one-eyed grasp. “Give it up, Felipe,” he yelled out, trying to pinpoint where the man was. “Come on, you’ve got no chance.”

His answer was another murderous spray of bullets, another ruined painting. Doyle hoped to God, they weren’t the Spanish ambassador’s lot or Cowley would probably send him on a one-way ticket to Moscow. But Felipe’s panic had given away his location and Doyle trotted off carefully, training taking over, following procedure almost without thinking about it. At least all this panicked shooting would empty the lunatic’s clip faster. The next corner loomed and Doyle licked his lips cautiously. He was a good shot, he knew it, the best on the squad although Bodie would argue blue about it, but the SG 540 was a weapon of mass destruction, outclassing his handgun like a battleship against a dinghy. Just as he was about to whip around and confront Felipe, he caught a blur of movement to his right. He snapped his head around, right arm coming up automatically, ready to fire and at the last possible second recognised Bodie. And Bodie was about to hurdle straight into that weapon of mass destruction.

Adrenaline surging through his veins Doyle clenched his gun, felt it slick against his palm, and threw himself into the open. The assault rifle sprayed the wall, perforating paintings and plaster alike. Had he been standing he’d be a bloody pulp by now, but Doyle rolled low, landing on his stomach, took aim and fired two quick warning shots. Bodie sprang into view on the other side, catching the Spanish man unawares. “Drop it! Now! Drop it, I said!”

Felipe, facing the wrong way dropped the rifle. Bodie kept his weapon trained on him while Doyle gained his feet. He threw a quick glance at Doyle, but his quick grin faded rapidly as he saw his partner’s face. Saw the handgun still pointing steadily at the big man. 

Bodie was well acquainted with Doyle’s temper and equally aware of Doyle’s very strong sense of right and wrong. Doyle’s face was passionately alive, easy to read and the murderous intent showed clearly. He knew that look and he knew that Doyle was about to break the rules, such as they were in CI5 and do something unforgivable. Well at least unforgivable to Doyle once the red mist of hate had cleared from his mind and he realised what he’d done. Bodie didn’t give a toss for Felipe’s life, and as far as he was concerned killing him would do the world a favour, but not like this. Not unarmed. It wasn’t Doyle’s style.

“Doyle… he’s not worth it.”

Doyle’s tongue came out and gently touched his bitten lip and he stepped lightly forward, his face colder than Bodie had ever seen it, but his eyes, his eyes were firing, livid, almost wild with his intent. Bodie was suddenly frightened all over again for his partner. It was rare that Doyle could accept a death no matter how necessary and he had a horrible certainty that his partner would pull the trigger and Bodie didn’t want that to happen. Didn’t want Doyle to live with it afterward. “Ray…don’t.”

Felipe looked from one to the other and even he caught that deadly intent in the stalking man opposite him. His one eye flared in comprehending panic. Doyle’s lips curled up, feral and Bodie took three quick strides and caught his partner’s arm. “Leave it mate!” 

He could feel the tension in Doyle’s arm, rock hard and solid; saw the whitened knuckles clenched around the handle of the semi auto. “The Cow will have you. Ray! For Christ’s sake, listen to me. He’s not worth it.”

For a minute Bodie thought he’d lost him, the silence stretched ominously, and nobody moved a muscle. Then, slowly Doyle lost that wild feral gleam in his eyes and without removing his gaze from Felipe, began to lower his arm. Bodie let out the breath he wasn’t aware of holding. “Jesus mate, you had me worried….”

But his words were abruptly cut off as Doyle’s right arm sprang back up again and he fired two shots in quick succession. Bodie whipped his head around, just in time to see the glint of a knife clatter to the floor, Felipe’s hands cupping his groin, his face blank with shock. His splayed fingers suddenly turned crimson and Bodie stared as red drips speckled the white tiles under his feet. 

He shot his gaze back to Doyle, but his partner looked quite normal, if very tired, his eyes steady and sane again, gun still up, still careful.

“Christ,” Bodie exhaled in relief, not sure how to take this latest stunt from his unpredictable partner. Anger, exasperation, amusement - but surprise won out for the moment. “Thought you were going to kill him?”

Doyle didn’t remove his gaze from the moaning figure in leather. “Thought crossed my mind too.”

It dawned on Bodie that he was deadly serious, yet Felipe was alive. Wounded yes, but still alive. For now anyway, although the possibility that he could bleed to death from such a wound was likely. Not particularly perturbed by the thought, he kept it light. “Unlike you to miss this close, mate.”

Doyle watched impassively as Felipe dropped to his knees moaning in shock. “I didn’t.”

And Bodie, comprehending, swung his gaze back, to see blood spurting between Felipe’s fingers, cupped protectively over his crotch. 

 

  
*********************

 

Cowley was talking to the Gallery owner, smoothing things over, all the while throwing hard looks at his agents. Doyle and Bodie discreetly and expertly, removed themselves from his line of sight, Doyle over to the security guards and Bodie outside to wait in the cold darkness. He rubbed at his head, the soreness disappearing now, quietly appalled at how easily this could have all gone wrong if not for Doyle. He glanced across to the door as Doyle emerged with the security guard. And how wrong it could have gone for Doyle himself, come to think on it. Flashing lights bathed the street, blue, red, police, ambulances. 

Lola was being led by Jax across to a waiting car. She stopped briefly as she passed and stared challengingly at him, face haughty and stiff. He sent her a cold stare in return. She glanced back at Doyle, at his easy lithe grace, his deceptive appearance and snarled scathingly, “So who is he? Your brother?”

Bodie gave her a pitying look. She would never understand, how could she? He looked at Doyle himself, saw his partner stretch tiredly, one hand rucking up his shirt as he scratched absently at his back and smiled. He turned back to the hard woman in front of him and his voice was soft, but firm with belief. “In all but blood.”

Her cruel black eyes didn’t waver as she was led away but Bodie dismissed her immediately. Susan was leading Connolly to another car and Bodie sauntered over, intercepting them to search Connolly’s tired, worn face. “Mac said the last two bombs didn’t go off?”

Connolly gazed at him for a long minute then he also switched his gaze Doyle’s way. “I see you found your conscience, Bodie.”

Bodie followed his gaze to his oppo who was now stroking his throat, as if plucking at an invisible collar, while the young receptionist wrote something on a small piece of paper, smiling prettily up at him. Doyle, never one to let an opportunity go by, was bestowing his considerable charm on the girl. Bodie rolled his eyes heavenward. Charm coupled with a very roguish grin. Made women daft it did. Enough for this one to overlook his disreputable appearance in any case, and give him her phone number. He snorted softly, affection and irritation colliding, as it so often did with Ray Doyle.

Connolly smiled sadly. “Could also be your Achilles’ heel, lad.”

Then Susan bundled him into the car and it pulled smoothly away. Bodie stared after it, hands jammed into his pockets. Doyle came up behind him, folding the piece of paper and tucking it into his back jeans pocket. “What was all that about?”

Bodie shrugged and turned to his partner, looking him up and down, taking note of Doyle’s stiff posture and the way he kept his back arched. “Is that my shirt?”

Doyle looked at him innocently. “Well, I always said green isn’t your colour. Looks far better on me, mate, matches my eyes.” 

Bodie decided to let that pass. “Suppose Cowley wants a report. What are you going to tell him?”

“Me?” Doyle looked indignant. “I’m injured I am, I’m off to get my back fixed. Cowley’s all yours.”

“Hang on.” Bodie put out a hand to stop him as Doyle made off towards the ambulance. “It’s no good me doing it, I’ve lost my memory.”

“Bodie!”

God, speak of the devil… Resigned, Bodie turned to face the wrath of George Cowley.

“There are certain procedures within this organisation that I expect followed to the letter, Bodie.” Cowley looked around for the second half of his trying team and spotted Doyle, minus his shirt, sitting in the back of the ambulance, hunched while an attendant probed at his back. His lips thinned, unaware that Doyle had been injured, but one thing at a time and he swung his ire back to his dark haired agent. “Why didn’t you check in?”

Bodie gave a theatrical sigh and spread out his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Sorry sir, I er…forgot….”

 

  
****************

**Jaicen5**

October 2009

Acknowledgements to:

Pmgms  
Ci5mates  
Siskiou  
Sue – especially for the beta and coding

For help, suggestions and general encouragement


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